


Mir Image

by Sara Generis (kanadka)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, Espionage, M/M, Suspense, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 116,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/Sara%20Generis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the fall of the Union, Russia attempted some covert curtain-talk of his own. Decades later, he starts it up again for completely mysterious reasons. Unfortunately, neither of Canada's two official languages are batsh*t insane. NOTE: as of 02.10.2016, this fic is on permanent hiatus and therefore will not be updated until further notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (prologue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED TO ADD: 02.10.2016: As of today, this fic is on permanent hiatus. Sorry about that. Though I have an ending in mind and a loose outline for remaining chapters, the first 5-6 chapters were written before 2012, and the remainder, while better quality, were written before my own headcanons of what nations really are - and what that entails in terms of a workable plot - had solidified. As a result, the fic as a whole requires a large overhaul, which I have neither the time nor the patience for at the moment.

0\. _(mid-summer; an undetermined year, but somewhere between 1971 and 1991)_

July 1st has always held, and likely always will hold, a very special place in my heart. I'm almost always in Ottawa for it, except for the times I was overseas (for reasons I'd like not to dwell on). With the increasing lack of wars in which Canada is finding itself mired, I'm able to enjoy the festivities more often.

America's pretty busy with the 4th coming up, so as usual, he doesn't call. Neither does France - France is usually busy with Bastille Day preparations; nor England, who actually doesn't have an excuse besides absent-mindedness. In fact, nobody calls me.

But that's okay, because for this one day, Ottawa magically changes from a sleepy government city - who's stuffy, snobby and self-important without having any real right to be, and who usually rolls up the patios at 9 PM (except for student bars) - into an enthusiastic, high-spirited reveller, drunk and mad with joy. The city itself comforts me with buskers, live music, ice cream, a joyous act of day-long party that floods, literally floods, the streets of downtown. With Ottawa's help, I forget that my family's forgotten me.

Despite Quebec and _la francophonie_ being steps away, even Hull celebrates the Dominion of Canada - okay, probably the statutory holiday part has something to do with it. And if the St-Jean Baptiste celebrations still out-pace the Canada Day celebrations, well... I can ignore that part. My typically somewhat-divided self feels a little more structured, a little more like unity. It's great!

So that was mostly why I was so pissed off that year when America insisted that the meeting - that would ordinarily have been held July 7th - be moved back a week, just because it suited his schedule better. I mean, what the hell? That is my day! I'd never expected cake, I'd never even expected acknowledgement, but can't a nation get the day off work on his birthday like everybody else?

And of course, no amount of protesting on my part was able to sway anybody. It helped that I couldn't be heard. Every time there was a silent moment (I couldn't interrupt people like America does, that's so rude) I had tried to pipe up, but someone talked over me (just! so! rude!!). That still happens. Sometimes it's Germany; other times it's Spain.

That time, it was Russia. (Technically his name then was the Soviet Union, but none of the other countries which comprise the Soviet Union - Ukraine, Georgia, Armenia, and all the rest - had been to a single meeting in awhile. Let's call a spade a spade.) "If there could be silence, please," Russia's voice said, delicate and calm, and he didn't even have to use a lot of his 'do not disobey me, fools' undertone for everybody to shut up, including my jerk brother.

God, what I'd give to have that ability instead.

The Soviet Union slowly turned my way, with a curious sort of look that I couldn't completely identify. For a scant moment ... it almost looked like he'd done this for a reason. Did he hear me? Was he doing this for my benefit, so that I could finally speak?

But then Rus- the Soviet Union continued talking about something completely unrelated. Nope. He just wanted to make sure I'd shut up too. Evidently, the Union hadn't forgotten how long it took Canada to formally recognise him. Not like I was ever a real threat. Actually, he probably didn't even notice me. Heard nothing more than a whisper, saw only a vague shadow, thought he was seeing things.

Hosers, all of them. Well, whatever, the less fuss I raised the sooner I'd get out of there.

\--

And that's how I got stuck working July 1st that year. They did not even give me time and a half. (In Canada, I'm pretty sure that's illegal, but _I_ wasn't hosting.)

It was even a bright, sunny, still day when I left on the 30th - the kind of day that tells you the weather will stay perfect and cloudless for a good half week - and that made me even more upset because the year before that, the fireworks on the Hill were cancelled due to high winds and overcast weather. That meant the budget got shifted a year. I bet they really went nuts that night.

Dammit, America. (It was even worse because when I asked about it before the meeting, he had had a perfectly legitimate reason for having moved the meeting, so I was angry over nothing. That did not stop me from spending most of the meeting sulking away and glaring at America anyway. It made me feel slightly better, but ultimately didn't do anything useful.)

We all got seated in Shanghai and Russia - sorry, Soviet Union - started it off saying something about nielsbohrium, which got America (and Germany) really pissed off, and all three of them wound up arguing for two hours with Denmark jumping in, while France and England bickered amongst each other about the usual stuff. Both of them had had issues lately - France in particular had had some kind of student revolt - and I think what they both wanted was someone to pick on.

The nielsbohrium naming convention issue sounds ridiculous in hindsight, but it was really important then, if only because it meant the Russians - Soviets - oh screw it, Russians - were finally starting to be a little more open about things like their nuclear research. Which I very, very much wanted to know about, if the usual offenders would have done me the courtesy of shutting up so someone else could get a word in edgewise.

We'd planned on breaking for lunch at noon but that ended up being more like one. A late lunch, sure, but you can't stop America once he's started. At which point China informed us he'd ordered in for all of us. America, who didn't like anything that didn't look like a hamburger (and who still doesn't), instantly put an order in for more, 'proper' (American) food, to which China took offence, and quicker than America could say 'MSG is a communist drug' the two of them went at it. Gosh, I kept thinking, I just want to go home...

That was when something strange happened. Russia, who was sitting across from me, gave me - _me_ , as in he looked directly at me - this funny look, and then bent down sideways, like he'd dropped his pencil and was fumbling for it. Maybe half a minute later he retrieved the pencil.

Nothing wrong with dropping your pencil. So what was with the look?

Some time later, about an hour or two, he did it again. When not sulking like a brat, I had been preoccupied with trying to follow the discourse between China and England (and I won't deny having taken a quick nap as well - Italy always made that look like such a good idea) when I got the curious skin-prickling tense feeling of being watched closely.

That doesn't happen too often to me. When it does, it usually makes me fade away and the other party stops watching pretty quickly. This was the first time I'd recalled it in - oh, easily a decade. But whenever someone's doing some creepy staring, there was generally just the one culprit, and he was seated right across from me. Not hard to put together.

Russia's glance immediately dropped to his lap when our eyes met. Then he looked at the ground beside the chair, where he had bent down to collect his pencil earlier.

He'd probably dropped it again, and it had rolled underneath the table, and his legs, though long, weren't long enough to fish it back out his end. He must want me to play fetch, I thought, this must be some kind of stupid game to pass the time.

I was tempted to say something about it. I mean, I'm not a dog who does tricks! But on the other hand, it didn't look like Russia had anything else to write with.

So game or not, I gave him a heavy, suffering sigh, and bent down myself. The pencil was next to my foot. I still don't know how the hell it got over there without him kicking it.

The second I grabbed it, his left foot kicked out in a sharp jab. He didn't hit me but I reacted quickly and backed up. Whacked my head on the under-side of the table. It hurt like hell, and was one of the reasons I avoided Cuba for like a week afterwards.

Under Russia's left boot there was a small white envelope, wedged in the seam between the sole and the leather upper. Almost like he'd seen that I had seen it, he nudged his foot in my direction.

I thought, what the hell does he think he's doing? What part of Western bloc member doesn't he get?

But... I'll admit, I was curious. So I grabbed it, too, and pushed it up inside the sleeve of my blazer.

That was when I noticed something else. Russia had been using a pencil. The pencil I held in my hand was half gone, and the eraser was a black stump - completely useless. The rest of us used fountain pens.

And his boot had this giant hole on the bottom, where it looked like the sole had been run down, and I could see the roughened, dirty skin of his toes. He wasn't wearing socks. He looked like he hadn't worn socks for ages. Did nobody take care of him? Didn't he take care of himself?

I straightened to sit back up (carefully this time). Nobody seemed to have seen me - that wasn't surprising - though some were looking funny at Russia. Austria was giving him a weird look, but he shrugged it off - I remember clearly his massive shoulders rolling inside that ridiculous thick coat. He looked like one of America's beloved football players, and it was July. How was he not overheating? "Noise was Canada," Russia explained, and held his hand out for the pencil.

And he gave me an eerie smile. I remember that clearly too. He smiled with his lips, not his eyes. It was his eyes that creeped me out more than anything else. The sclera was pinkish and the skin underneath them was puffier and darker than usual. He was either really exhausted or really hungry. Or both.

Suddenly the letter I carried in my inside sleeve felt a little more like an accusation. Though I'd done nothing wrong, except complain like a spoilt child about having to work, I felt guilty. And why? Because I had a decent night's sleep and a full breakfast that morning. Had Russia?

He noticed me staring at him and instantly became a lot more hostile. Let it be said, hostility for Russia isn't just some creepy smile. It's the creepy smile, plus him boring into your eyes with a belligerent intensity that shocks you. Plus a look like it would give him _pleasure smile_ to _render your flesh from its bone_. Plus an eerie chill in the air that you didn't notice before, or wasn't there before. It pulls the breath from my lungs and roots me where I'm standing ...You know what, it's really difficult to describe it to the point that you actually get what I'm driving at. Suffice it to say, Angry Russia is usually sufficient to give any of us - despite being nations - the deer-in-headlights syndrome. I hate it, because it takes all my effort not to vanish instantly.

"Spasiba," he said, and for something that was supposed to be _thank you_ it was hissed a little too strong and he curled his lips nastily. He held out a hand, prompting me to give him the pencil. Awkwardly, I handed it over. Austria tutted derisively and muttered something about classic Russian manners.

Clearly, I was just being silly. And this was getting ridiculous - Russia could take care of himself. And if he couldn't, he knew what to do - reach out for foreign aid. Like any other country. Go through the proper protocols! I wouldn't send my peacekeepers anywhere unless he asked for them.

That was one thing Russia had been negligent on then, asking for help. Between him and America, I think they were mining 95% of the world's pride.

\--

By the time I got home, it was well over 3 AM my time. Naturally. The fireworks had been over for awhile.

I had tried to open the letter during the meeting but only managed to rip a bit of the envelope before Russia's entire demeanour had turned murderous. He didn't even have to look at me to get that point across, so okay, I thought, okay, later. Later it will be.

It was the first thing I did once I did get home, though, was crack open a beer, sit down at the table and figure out what the hell Russia was up to.

It was ...

A card.

On the front was a picture of a strange little cartooney monkey with gigantic ears, holding a bouquet of sunflowers, and inside was some messy writing that I couldn't decipher. I slowly realised half of it wasn't even in English, but thankfully the other half was the English translation. I didn't know English cursive and Russian cursive were similar enough to be mistaken for each other. (But maybe Russia just had really crappy handwriting.)

It appeared to say, _Pity that one's birthday happens only once a year. Congratulations and fond regards today_ , and then an even messier scrawl that I couldn't make out even if I were fluent in Russian. I figured it must have been his signature, because beneath it was, a bit more clearly, _Poccuuckar COCP - Russia SFSR_.

Well.

It took me the rest of my beer to get rid of the sharp ache I felt in my chest, and a lot of willpower not to cry. America forgets, France forgets, England forgets. All of my other friends forget. And I don't mind. The one time someone remembers my birthday, it's crazy Russia. Amazing.

\--

I was tempted to throw it out, I won't lie.

I hadn't planned on getting that drunk - I'd gotten home so late - but the card did it. Besides, I didn't have anywhere to be until America's big birthday bash which wasn't for another day, and as for the card, I just didn't know how to feel about it. I think I might have been happier if everyone had forgotten. That, I'm used to.

So, anyway, three beers later (and not the easy stuff, I dug into the stronger ones you can get in the grocery stores across the river with the _chasse-galerie_ on the label), I was fairly well tanked.

I don't quite remember what happened after that, but I woke up on the couch feeling like someone dug out my tongue and replaced it with cloth. And there was something poking me in the ribs.

"Food," said the bear.

"Ngh," was my only reply, but to be fair, I had done this to myself, and it was my own fault. I didn't give the bear much food before I took off to China the day before, and I didn't remember feeding him when I got home. So I pulled myself up, dragged myself into the kitchen, tossed him a fish or nine and started the coffee.

On my way to the washroom something caught my eye.

I must have ripped the card while inebriated, because it was in a few large pieces on the kitchen table. So was the envelope, which I apparently did a real number on. I was ... not too sure how I felt about that, either.

But looking closer, I found little gray squiggles and marks on one of the envelope pieces. Those hadn't been there yesterday! Wouldn't I have noticed something like that?

There was more of them too, and shockingly - the revelation jolted me way more than caffeine would have - they looked like letters. English letters.

I made quick work of the washroom before coming back to figure this one out. It took some time to reconstruct my damage but the marks - pencil, because at some point my skin oil managed to smudge a couple - were all concentrated on the seams of the envelope, where the flaps joined and overlapped to create a paper pocket for a letter. Or in my case, a birthday card. Hm. Well that explained why I didn't see them before.

Once I got more coffee in me, I needed about an hour to figure out what goes where (maple, I remember thinking, really gotta lay off the Maudite, it doesn't make for easy mornings after... or afternoons after), and I did not like the sound of the message as it came up, but I tried not to let my anxieties solve the puzzle for me. I was grateful, despite the heat of mid-day July, for the comforting weight and texture of Kuma-whatsit's fur as he snoozed on my bare feet. It felt like grounding, when meanwhile, my heart was racing so hard it was liable to fly out of my ribcage.

Despite not making much sense, the final message was bone-chilling. Hell, maybe _because_ it didn't make any sense.

_Only you can help me. I am a sick man, I live in a ward in a psychiatric hospital where I am tormented. I have lost my drink in its strange, curvaceous glass. This is my predicament. Matvei, deliver the message from the son to the devil._

Yeah, Russia, you're a sick man, alright. What the hell did this mean? A drink in a strange curvaceous glass? Were we talking wine and stem, curvy? Russia spent time with France, there was no way he didn't know the word for 'wine glass', why couldn't he have just said wine glass? Unless it was cognac, but same argument applied!

And the psychiatric hospital, where he is tormented. Because _that's_ not creepy. Was Russia being tortured? (Could you even do that to a country?)

The worst part was - and for me is still - the first and last bit. _Only you can help me._ Well! No pressure or anything! And, _Matvei, deliver the message from the son to the devil_.

From the son to the devil ... that kind of talk sounded religious. Which meant mostly-secular Canada needed to call someone a little more knowledgeable.

\--

"Ve?"

"Uh, hi, Italy? It's Canada -"

"Hello? Is there anybody on the line? Pronto?"

"Yes, um, it's Canada -"

"Prank calls are mean, you shouldn't do them!"

It took a lot of effort for me to practically scream into the receiver, "N-no, Italy. It's, it's Canada. Ca. Na. Da. _Canada!_ "

"Oh, yes! Martin, right? Hi! Why don't you speak up some? I can barely hear you."

"Heh, yeah... must be a bad connection, eh? Listen, I know you don't like talking about the Vatican - but I have a question in regards to, um, to those kinds of things... and I didn't have your brother's number, so..."

There was silence on the line, and for a moment I worried he hung up. "What is the question," Italy asked, a little sadly, like someone took his pasta away.

"So um, someone's given me this message, it says 'deliver the message from the son to the devil'. Does that mean anything to you?"

"What? You don't have a son."

"N-no, uh, I mean more, in a religious way. I think."

"Depending on who you ask that would be Jesus! Actually, wait. No, that's pretty much Jesus. I think anybody would agree that 'son' refers to Jesus. Now, whether they believe the son is on par with the father, different question, but you know that is _not_ something I really want to get into."

"Okay, so Jesus." I could've figured this all out myself. "And, and the devil part?"

Again, there was silence on the line. "That ... would be the devil? Obviously? You ask some silly questions! Listen, is that all you had to ask, because I'm kind of in the middle of something right now ..."

Probably food. I had faith in Veneziano's ability to talk on the phone and put dough through a roller at the same time. However difficult he'd always found it to do two things at once, if one of those things was food-related it would not be an issue. Besides, he probably had me on speakerphone since I'm just that damn quiet.

"But then, what is meant by giving a message from Jesus to the devil? Is there anything in the bible about that?"

"Well, that depends on which bible! ... Actually, wait, no. That doesn't really happen in the book. I mean, the only time there's really a message from Jesus to the devil would be during the temptation. Maybe? Would that count?"

I had no clue whether that was what Russia meant. Maybe I had just better look it up for myself. "Okay, where does that happen?"

"Hm... You can try one of the gospels. Try Matthew. Hey, that's your name! Or was it Mark? Because there is a Mark gospel too..."

Italy continued blathering on, and as I waited for an appropriate silent moment to let him go, I cursed myself for my own stupidity. Of course - Matthew. Why did that not surprise me. He even _wrote the name down_. How Russia knew my first name was beyond me, but - Matvei to deliver the message. I'm an _idiot_.

But believe it or not, that was where that trail ended. The gospel of Matthew yielded absolutely no clues. Ditto for Mark. It was just more tales about Jesus and stuff he did. And the other two gospels that mentioned the dealings between Jesus and Satan were equally vague. Useless, dead end.

And that's when I figured - mostly-secular Canada had to ask help from a country that was more religious, but who wrote the letter? A country that at one point made religion illegal. Why would godless Russia make a bible reference?

No wonder it was a dead end.

\--

So I tried something else. Who else knew Russia? Pretty well everybody who lived with him under the Soviet Union would, but on the other hand, I couldn't make contact with those guys. You have to remember the era, it was pretty closed off. The best I could do then was to make contact with someone who could make contact with one of those guys, and we had a NATO meeting in early July in Berlin, so the timing was perfect.

"Uh, hey, Germany?"

Germany - more specifically, West Germany - didn't move from his stance on the bench in the park outside the hotel. (His dogs didn't even look up! Was I really so unremarkable that I didn't even leave a scent?)

I cleared my throat a little and said it again, as loud as I could. Which was not very loud.

One of the dog's ears perked up, which drew Germany's attention. Finally he spotted me. "Ah, America. What do you want?"

"It's, um, Canada actually -"

"Well, what do you want?"

"Um," I began awkwardly, trying not to fiddle with the ends of my sleeves. "I, uh, I really hope this isn't a bad question -"

"Just spit it out!"

"I, um, kind of, wanted to know if you have been able to, um, talk to your brother recently."

Germany's face changed only imperceptibly. I wasn't sure whether he was shocked or offended at the question. "Why do you want to know?"

"Well," I began. I explained the entire situation and Germany - for once - didn't interrupt me. Guess it must've been shock.

"S-so anyway, I thought it would be useful if I could talk to someone who, you know, knows Russia a little bit better."

Germany thought quietly for a moment. Finally he remarked, "I am almost certain that it is dangerous to be spreading this information around. How many people have you told that Russia has contacted you so directly?"

Now, I really should jump in here. Remember the era? Yeah, so did I. So it was real dumb on my part not to have thought of this one first. But at the time it just didn't occur to me, like the bible reference that obviously wasn't a bible reference, and I remember thinking instead, wait, what? And then I began thinking oh, shit, oh _shit_ \- "Oh gosh, um, nobody. You're the first. I mean, I asked Italy -"

"You _WHAT? Dummkopf_ , Italy's the biggest gossip after France!"

"No, no! Oh no. I didn't explain him the, um, the whole thing, I just, I just asked him a related question! About the son and devil portion. As- as far as he knows, this is nothing but a mild interest in Catholicism on my part."

Germany's eyes narrowed and he scrutinised me a moment (I tried very hard not to, but it made my skin crawl and I went half-transparent), but either he believed I was telling the truth or he was otherwise satisfied. "I have no direct contact with my brother," he admitted, "but what I can do is approve for you a letter to be sent to him. He will then have to make contact with you. How he will go about doing that will be difficult - I suggest you therefore make the request that he deliver the response to me which I can deliver to you."

"Wow. Um, gosh. Guess that wall's pretty thick, eh?"

"It is," Germany muttered tightly. "I would also advise offering some sort of reward. If I know my brother, he is not likely to do anything without incentive. If that is all, good-day."

Dis- _missed_.

\--

The final copy went like this (I keep carbon copies of all my outgoing communications, which explains the mountain of filing I have to do all the time):

_Dear GDR,_

_The nation of Canada kindly requests your services in decryption of what may be an encoded message. I was recently sent a message from an anonymous source that includes the following:_

_1\. Only I can help_  
_2\. A sick man who lives in a ward in a psychiatric hospital, being tormented_  
_3\. An alcoholic drinking glass that is strange and curvaceous_  
_4\. Someone named Matvei is to deliver some message from Jesus to Satan._

_I have a feeling the homeowner of your current residence might know something about these matters. Would you please intervene on my behalf and obtain as much clarification as is possible on these matters?_

_In return, I have sent to your brother (as I am not permitted to send these official forms over the Wall) paperwork detailing trade for any one of my natural resources. You may pick whichever you like - lumber, freshwater, fish, minerals or metals (your pick of element - I notice the Soviet Union is concentrating some effort on building nuclear reactors; we have operative uranium mines in the north), maple syrup if you really want. East Germany would become the prime trading partner for the resource in question at extremely attractive prices._

_My thanks for your help in this endeavour. Sincerely yours,_

_Canada_

\--

Three months later Germany shoved a letter-sized paper folded neatly in thirds in my direction at the next meeting. "My apologies," he said, so I had low expectations even then.

Here's the copy of what Prussia sent.

_Canada,_

_Yeah so I tried, but I have no freaking clue what the hell Russia is ever talking about. Nobody does. He's a nutbag. He just looked at me and said something about taking his tea with limes today. Normally he takes it with lemons, and to be honest I don't know where he's gonna get the lime from, it's not like Russia grows these things and imports have been slim to nil, for reasons that are painfully obvious. He also asked whether I have seen the big black hippo cat, because it stole all the vodka. What._

_Keep in freaking mind: he was stone-cold sober when he told me this. Frankly I think Russia is more normal when he's inebriated. I waited 'til he found the vodka and tried asking him again but he just got quiet and said he wanted to be left alone to read. Also did not take his tea with a lime. So, I'm as much what the hell as you right now._

_Sorry I can't help you any more than that. Frankly, I have bigger fish to fry at the moment. Also too busy being awesome. But it's mostly the fish._

_Awesomely,_

_Me_

_(PS, I've decided I want your maple syrup. But it'll have to wait until trade can flow a little more smoothly between us. In the meantime, don't let my brother have any. That stuff is _mine_.)_

Prussia. Because colloquialisms aren't just for common speech anymore, apparently.

And yes, he really did go with the maple syrup. I'm constantly sitting on a goodly amount of the world's freshwater supply and he wants maple fucking syrup. Because Prussia, that's why.

\--

At this point, I only had one card left, and while it was a trump suit, it was a pretty risky one to play.

"Canada! Chéri! You haven't been to see me in awhile. And just in time for my Bastille Day celebrations!"

"Hahahaha..." I murmured awkwardly into France's chest. His standard greeting for me - both then and now - is to clutch me and pin me there like he hasn't seen me in forever. I always try to squeeze out but he's like a finger trap; the more I struggle the harder he holds me (the less I can freakin' _breathe_ ).

So instead I gave up and went limp and eventually, he let me go. "I was wondering," I said, but he interrupted me.

"Come! Let us walk and talk. I have much to prepare for my party. Besides, the day is nearly three pm and if I know you as I - _ahem!_ \- know you -" he winked salaciously, and it's just impossible to force oneself not to blush so I went bright red - "you have not had anything to drink today! It is a crime most _affreux_."

I was lucky I was good with wine, because half a glass didn't affect me nearly as much as it once did. That, and I'd been smart enough to have something starchy before I came to Paris, so I was well-equipped with a full stomach. France isn't the only one who _knows_ people.

Once we'd gotten settled, I sprang my own trap. "Can you tell me about Russia?" I asked him.

France gave me a look I've only ever seen perhaps once before on his face. It was somewhere between knowing, pensive, and tart. "I think you mean _l'Union Soviétique_ ," he supplied helpfully, his voice a little lower.

"The... part that is Russia," I clarified. "You knew him when he was younger. What was he like?"

France didn't reply for a minute and just sat there sipping his wine. " _Capricieux_ ," he said finally. "Temperamental, at times. Mostly he kept to himself. It was difficult to get him to come to parties, but once he got used to it he adapted readily. He was a wonderful dancer," France finished, swirling the wine almost wistfully. "That will not surprise you, I do not think, given the renown of the _Ballets Russes_. And he has a certain taste for art that is at once conventional and completely incomprehensible. Why do you want to know?"

"That was before you got in fights with him," I offered, trying to get France to talk more and ask me questions less.

"You've been speaking with Prussia," France murmured darkly, not meeting my gaze. "I don't know whether I should tell you any more. After all you have not even told me for what reason it is that you want this information. _Quelque chose pour quelque chose, n'est-ce pas?_ "

And this was why I didn't want to play the France card. Like Germany said - the biggest gossip. And as he said, it would be something for something.

"I'm ... curious," I said instead, hoping it would give France the wrong idea entirely.

He raised a fine, styled blonde arch. "Curious, as in ..." I couldn't hide the blush his insinuating tone provoked, and didn't force myself to try, either. In this case, it was good, because it helped foster the conclusion I wanted France to jump to.

"Oh, non non _non_ ," France said, very quickly, patting my hand like I was twelve. "That would be a grave mistake."

"I-I'm old enough to make my own mistakes!" I protested.

"Then you are old enough to do your own _research_ ," he snapped archly, "I will not be an accomplice in this. Not with things being between _la Russie_ and your brother as they are. No, I do not think so."

"Please," I said. "Just tell me a little about his personality, enough to get me to talk to him. Likes, dislikes?"

"Russia has changed much since the days I knew him."

"Anything," I insisted.

Francis finally relented. "He is a wonderful dancer, yes, but he prefers quiet activities. Solitary meditation. He enjoys music. He reads a lot. He has a sense of humour that after three hundred years, I still don't entirely understand. He ruins perfectly decent tea by overbrewing it and adding lemon, so I imagine his tastes are less sweet and _plutôt amer_. Extrapolate that as you will. And that, _mon beau_ , is all I have to say about that."

France swept out of the foyer and only turned back at the end of the hall. After all these years I've come to realise what that means - the more dramatic his gesture, the more his coat swooshes, the more hurt he is. "If you're not coming to help me out with Bastille Day preparations, you can show yourself out."

Harsh, France. It never really helps to have him angry with me. Especially not for something like this, where I wasn't even sure why he was so angry. And I didn't want to have to play the suck-up game later (because I knew it would involve my least-favourite France game, the 'guess why I am angry' game).

So obediently I followed and made no further mention of the beast to the east.

\--

"Okay, we have the following. Some sort of cryptic reference to the bible. Maybe not. Can't really make any sense of that. Followed by some sort of cryptic reference to limes and cats and vodka. And last but not least, this is a quiet, sensitive, artistic man with a deranged sense of humour." I slouched back in the chesterfield. How did I know this wasn't all some stupid joke, anyway?

I remember thinking, I bet that's it. Just a dumb joke. "Well now I feel pathetic," I told Kuma-something.

"Who?" he asked.

"Oh, Canada. You know, your owner."

"Letter?"

"No, the letter was from Russia." Who had a real dick sense of humour.

"Oh," Kuma-whatever said.

"Yeah," I agreed dejectedly, "'oh' pretty much sums it up."

\--

And so I put the card and the envelope - in the envelope's case, painstakingly taped up - away in a shoebox, which migrated around my house for a bit until it finally wound up in my closet. Equally I mostly forgot about Russia - technically the Soviet Union - whose eyes somehow seemed darker and deeper than I'd ever imagined with every meeting I attended, until finally, the Soviet Union whittled away to nothing. I, with my brother, and increasingly the rest of them, formally recognised the Baltics, Georgia, Ukraine, Belarus, all the -istans in the Caucasus.

Then, at long last, Russia took his former name, gained a little more weight, looked a little less haunted, and I forgot all about the envelope's message.

Until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm new at 1st person voice. The idea is that it would be less similar to the other things I've written. I hope that worked out!


	2. Chapter 1

1\. _(late August, some year in the present-future)_

I can count on one hand the number of times I've interacted with Russia. For the most part, it's at boss-level, so I never have to do much. I'm grateful for that, because frankly, Russia's intimidating and a little unstable. And I think he's got some kind of sensor or something that can tell when his intimidation strategies are working. I don't count the emails, because those are only ever cc'd to me, and a bunch of other people. Nothing to indicate that he actually sees me as a distinct separate entity.

That's why I initially don't think anything of the letter when I get it in the mail.

In fact, I'm running so late for a meeting with my boss (who is _not_ my favourite, he schedules things like a certain land of the brave and home of the calendar-challenged does - to suit himself and screw what anyone else thinks) that I don't even get a chance to look through the mail until much later when I return home.

Three flyers, junk mail, another flyer, more junk mail, an envelope from CRA, ooh new IKEA catalogue, Environment Canada complaining about Alberta again (this I file under 'to forward to my boss', which he will probably in turn file under 'to ignore permanently'), and the last one is a simple white envelope with my address, the return address coming from Moscow.

I don't think anything of it at all until I realise, wait, Moscow?

Nobody sends letters anymore. The last time I got a message from Russia, it was addressed to a pile of other people as well, and it was an email. I know he has email contact, so why would he bother spending the time and money on stamps?

Stranger still, the letter isn't in English, but in French. I'm glad he didn't pick Russian because despite the spelling errors which really are minor, his French is way better than my Russian. But why French?

 _Dear Canada_ , it says,

_I have been looking into the finances surrounding certain natural resources under request from my supervisors. As you know I have both a prime minister and president. The president is elected while the prime minister is appointed. The balance of power is also affected; it is like the president is my body, but the prime minister is the face. It may be somewhat of an informal title, as the prime minister cannot make me do anything without the president's interference. For the most part the prime minister is an administrative role. In addition to serving on several councils the title also allows some signatory roles ..._

Etc, etc. Russia trails off for awhile here explaining what exactly happens with who does what. This is interesting enough but I could look this up in a book, so I'm really not sure why he's telling me.

_Furthermore, you may be aware of the union between I and Belarus; relations have been rocky as my prime minister is dissatisfied with the status of this union. At the moment the union is like the difference between a betrothal and an engagement. I believe my own feelings upon this subject are well-known but that is neither here nor there. Trade relations involve mostly my resources such as natural gas; however, ..._

And he trails off again about stuff I already know, stuff like how Belarus is kind of a drain on him (well of course, she's your little sister. If she were your equal, the nature of the relationship fundamentally changes and you two would be married) and that the two of them have been on the outs recently (it's hard to avoid overhearing the rows; Belarus is a freakin' banshee and France keeps us all updated). What the hell is the point of all of this?

I skip through two more pages to the end.

_In conclusion, the prime minister has granted my personal request to offer you a competitive price for the maple syrup you are currently providing to certain parts of Germany, if you would be so kind as to send me the forms._

_Best regards,_

_Poccur - Russia._

Wait.

Really? _Really??_

All of that nonsense just to say please do some investing with us, I have a hankering for pancakes and Prussia's getting too much sugar for someone who doesn't exist as a nation anymore?

This is _ridiculous_. I understand Russia's got a stupid sense of humour but come on, now.

"Problem?" asks the bear.

" _Yes_ , problem," I splutter, "Russia thinks he's being really funny! What the - what the hell is this even!?"

"A letter," the bear says.

"I _know_ it's a letter."

"Don't get mad."

"I'm not - _argh!_ " Because yes, I _am_ mad. Russia's toying with me like a cat with a mouse and I have _no fucking idea why_. Did I do something to him? Is this even personal, is it even about me? Does he just want to piss off America some more? Isn't he usually more direct with this kind of thing anyway? He knows I crumple like paper when he turns on the creepy act. Why resort to mind-games?

So I do what I do best when confronted with these things.

Two bottles of Fin du Monde later I've got England on the line. Why England? Well, I sat on my phone and it dialled him by accident and he actually picked up. England a) can barely hear me - though I'm a little louder with beer - and b) is five hours ahead, which means it's like past midnight there. Whatever, he's probably up all night communing with spirits or something. At least this time I've managed to convince him I'm not America.

"Huh," says England, after I've read him the translated contents of the letter once through.

"I know, eh?"

"In French?"

"All of it. In French. I, I didn't even know he _spoke_ French!"

"Everybody speaks French after spending time with France," England grumbles.

"America doesn't."

"He's a special case. Anyway, I agree. I can't think of any reason Russia would send you this, and then end it with a plea for - for liquid sugar? That doesn't make any sense."

"That's what I thought. That's why I phoned you up." That and accidental dialling.

"Yes, about that. It is two in the morning, and I've a plane to catch tomorrow at nine, I'm meeting America for a day. So I'll have to let you go in a bit."

"Fine, fine. I'm just glad you agree that there's no initial motivation - like me pissing him off - which, which I _haven't_ done! - as to why Russia's sent me a message like this in French! I mean, it's so obviously not his native language it's almost foolish - droning on and on about stuff that, as, as you say, you could find in a book if you were interested - which _I am not!_ \- and when he finally gets to the point it's ultimately about something completely unrelated? No, it's got to be some stupid joke."

"It's not completely unrelated, he did make mention of his trades, but - wait, hang on. What do you mean, not his native language?"

"That'd be Russian, eh?"

"Yes, of course, but - he's spoken French for over three hundred years."

"Yeah, well _you've_ spoken it since the Norman invasion and your French is appalling."

Beer is not good for my verbal politeness filter.

England doesn't seem to care. "To be fair, that's a little bit on purpose, on account of our history. Russia on the other hand ... he's fairly well fluent. I've heard him speak. He even has the accent down. I think he rather liked France."

"Okay, then he's a shitty writer. I mean, uh, it's got mistakes all over the page."

Silence on the line. "Alright, now _that's_ fishy," England remarks.

"Seriously? Y-you're saying that sending me a long-winded letter with a, a mostly unrelated conclusion that so far is completely unwarranted is fine, but the moment it's got a spelling mistake or two, something's off?"

"Is it just one or two?"

"Um -" I look down at the page. "No, there's - actually there's a lot of 'em."

"Think carefully, has Russia ever sent you any correspondence with a single spelling mistake in it?"

"I think you need to first ask me whether Russia has sent me any correspondence, period."

"Alright, then I'll field this one. The answer is no. Not a single one. I thought once that perhaps his English was affected to piss your brother off, but I think it's genuinely accented and he has editors aplenty. But that would mean he's always had someone watching him over his shoulder, waiting for him to screw up. It's not rightly fair. I know I've had my own part to play in that charade but I feel sympathy nonetheless. Anyway nobody else does this. Everyone else just leaves the errors in - Poland's always got something in his, and Ukraine has typos aplenty. It's fine, nobody minds, I wouldn't accuse them of butchering English. You can still understand the message. But everything Russia sends out has gone through five revisions by three different people and sounds over formal."

"That sounds dangerously Cold War."

"Only he's been like that forever. Long as I've known him. Anyway, tell you what, I'll pop by in the morning before I head on out to Washington, if only because now I've got to see this. Be there by perhaps noon your time. Take care."

"G'night," I answer, and end the call, studying the three page letter a little more carefully now.

No spelling mistakes, eh?

I double-check my email inbox just to be sure while nursing my third beer. There's even an exchange between France and Russia, cc'd the rest of the G8 that is actually partly in French (to which America had replied, 'I'm not replying to this unless you speak American', to which France replied, 'But you are replying to it right now', and that started off a whole long chain of stupidity - I wonder if our bosses realise how much time we waste doing this kind of thing).

As England said, Russia's written French - like his written English - is impeccable.

"This doesn't make any sense," I murmur idly, and the bear, climbing up on my lap, hears me.

"Envelope?" he guesses.

And that's when I remember the Soviet birthday card from a few decades ago.

\--

Unfortunately, there's nothing when I rip the envelope apart this time. "Any more ideas?" I ask Kuma-thing.

"Poison," he says simply.

" _What?_ " I scoot away from the table in horror so quick my chair squeals on the floor. Oh god, it's not the old anthrax in the envelope trick, is it? Geez Russia, what the hell did I _do_ to you?

"Poison." Then the bear climbs off my lap and crawls to the kitchen, looking up balefully at the fridge. I open it, curious, and he noses at the crisper, where I keep the fish.

Oh for the love of. "You're hungry and you want food. Why didn't you just say fish?"

When it suddenly dawns on me. Poison. Poisson.

And why didn't Russia just write what he intended to say in the birthday card instead of on the inside seams of the card's envelope?

I stand there, shell-shocked, for so long that Kuma-jerk manages to eat three-quarters of the fish that was in the crisper, which was supposed to last him through to Thursday.

\--

 _Cher Canada_ , the letter begins,

_Je suis em train de faire du recherche à propos de ..._

He must mean "en train". It looks like nothing more than a typo.

_... sous le directif de mes amployeurs. Comme vous savez, j'ai deux shefs, un premier ministre et un president ..._

Which should be 'employeurs' and 'chefs'. It continues on and on. I underline the mistakes, which range from simple typos, to a missing 'e' - common errors in gender - to what would ordinarily be honest mistakes were it not for the fact that apparently Russia speaks French nearly as well as he speaks Russian.

Unfortunately the letters that spells out makes no sense. Firstly, it's not obvious whether the letters I'm looking for are the mistakes or the original letter that should be in there. For example, with "em train", does the message begin with an 'n' - the missing letter - or is it 'm', the mistake letter?

I come up with two keys, one that uses the mistake letters, and one that uses the correct letters. Neither set makes any sense on their own, but it's not too difficult to parse what letters go where based on what the message should be in terms of actual French words. The answer I get winds up being a mix of the two.

But the message not only is riddled with errors, it also makes no sense semantically. It reads, " _ma chese lour peze um euf et moite, moin que otre beut_ ". My heavy chair weighs an egg and a half, less than - I think that's votre, and peut - less than yours can?

Chair... chair. Busby's chair?

No, the weight of Busby's chair was not measured in eggs.

Then again, supposing we play this game a second time...

"Ai" from chaise, heavy requires a d and an e, peze should be pese, the s is missing. Un oeuf et moitie - that's an n, o, and an i - unless it should be an m -

Oh gosh. Oh, _maple_.

It reads " _aidez-moi, svp_ ".

This... this is a cry for help.

My blood runs cold. I haven't felt this unnerved since my old boss started inviting me along to his seances way, way back when.

Like a bad dream, the words, _only you can help me_ return to the forefront of my mind. But what does this have to do with a curvy alcohol glass, a mental institution, and a message from Jesus to the devil?

Maple. How _long?_ How long has Russia been asking for help and I just didn't _get it?_

And this is when I remember something else, namely, Germany telling me that it is almost certainly dangerous to spread information about things like this - coded messages from Russia - around in dangerous times.

And England's coming over tomorrow morning.

The first time I call it goes straight to voicemail. Which doesn't make sense, I _know_ he's at home! So I try it again, trying not to panic when I get to the second, then the third ring. Shit, what if he's already left, shit shit shit _shit_ -

"Ungh, h'lo?"

"England!! Englandit'sokayyoudon'thavetocomeovertomorrowwe'regoodokaybutthankyouanyway!"

"Canada, you git, d'you realise it's bloody half past five in the morning."

"I - oh." Sure enough when I look at my own clock it turns out it's one am. Time flies when you're having fun. Or being scared shitless by coded messages begging you for help. "Gosh, I'm so, so sor- hey, you _remembered_ me!"

"America's conked out by midnight most nights. He also doesn't talk like a bullet train. Remember? 'Awesome hero voice'?"

"Ah, heh, right. Well anyway. Like I was saying, I don't think you have to come over tomorrow. I think I'll be okay."

"... Really?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I think this is all a, um, -" shit, think quick - " _giant_ misunderstanding ... of some sort. Anyway." That was not smooth. "Really, it's okay. I just remembered something Russia once sent me - something _really_ trivial! - it also made no sense. He just, he just has a sick sense of humour. I remember I asked France about it, he said Russia's real quirky -"

England interrupts my babbling with a heavy sigh and, "Fine, whatever you say. Can I get some sleep now?"

Fist-pump.

Despite throwing England off, I can't get to sleep until three am, and that was with another two beers, which normally would put me out like a light, but my mind is racing and my heart is pounding. Sleep, when it does arrive, is uneasy. I can't shake the feeling that there's something honestly wrong.

_Help me, please. Only you can help me._

\--

I wake up way too early the next morning with a heavy, pounding head.

"Your own fault," Kuma reminds me. True enough.

Three hours later the doorbell rings. "That's strange," I tell Kuma-creature. "I'm not expecting anybody."

"England?" Kuma reminds me.

"No, I called him late last night, told him not to come. You were asleep then."

But sure enough, on the other side of the door is none other than he. "Right," says England, barging in, "let's get down to business."

"I thought I told you -"

"And I thought I told you I had to see this for myself!" he interrupts. "Honestly, child. What part of 'I'm SAS' don't you get. This smells fishier than a London rubbish bin at 3 am after a cheap pint night."

"Ah, England, look, really, it's not -"

But England just stands there with his hand open, expectantly, and gives me a no-nonsense look. He doesn't move until I guiltily hand over the letter. Fine, but if he doesn't find the message - the really scary one - I'm not finding it for him.

England looks at the first page of the letter, and then at the two other pages and gets a look on his face that denotes exhaustion, despite it being one in the afternoon. "Perhaps we ought to make a pot of tea," England suggests, which is really English for 'Canada, go make me some tea.'

"Um, Red Rose okay?" I ask, leading him into the kitchen, where England sits down at the table. I move to fill the kettle.

England sighs non-committally. "It'll do," he says, which I suspect is really English for 'you're getting decent tea for Christmas this year, since I never get you a birthday gift since I always forget it'. Not that I'm bitter.

While England's busy reading, I'm busy thinking. I can't let England know the message is for me to (somehow) help Russia. For some reason that I can't yet figure out, Russia seems to want this kept quiet. If he hadn't, he would have been more overt about it instead of resorting to all this secrecy. He could have just talked to me in person. But he didn't.

Unfortunately, for all of England's blustering, he is genuinely good at this kind of thing. If I give him enough time to think about the message, he'll figure it out, and then he'll freak out. So I need to distract him.

Possibly, very possibly, England might be able to help me with the birthday card's envelope. (And if that one has a scary or creepy message like this one, it is forty years old, so I'm not as concerned.)

"I'll be right back," I tell him, and dash off to get it upstairs before he can reply. Hell, he might not have even heard me.

By the time the water has boiled I've returned with the taped up envelope and am setting the milk jug and sugar out on the table. England has finished reading the long piece of code Russia has sent and is sitting quietly, thinking. "So, uh, can you guess what the message is yet?" I tease.

"Not yet, but give us a moment. Why, did you figure it out?"

I show him the answer that talks about how heavy his chair is. England scoffs. "You weren't kidding about his sense of humour," he remarks. "But isn't this misspelled too? Is it another code?"

"Um," I say, thinking quickly. Crap, England must just pretend to have very poor French to piss off France. "No! No it's, it's not. It's - it's a _dialect_." Matthew, you genius.

"French has dialects?"

"Sure!" and I hope the crack in my voice isn't too obvious. "You know, Breton."

England gives me a strange look. "What the hell is Breton?"

"The language ... of Brittany?"

England only knows enough about Brittany to know it's a source of pain in France's rear, but that's good enough for me. "Alright," he says slowly, and then - he's still thinking about it, dammit I need to get him started on this stupid envelope! - "How is it _you_ know this language? If it's just a joke surely Russia knows you're fluent in it. But I've never heard you speak it."

"Well," I cough, stalling a bit, "you know. You know Cape Breton Island, right? They, uh, speak it there." They don't, but I'm willing to bet a year's worth of Timbits that England does not know that. "It's, um, a Celtic language? Sort of like Cornish, or, or Welsh?"

England grimaces at the vague mention of his older brother. They must be on the outs. "Ugh," he says, "say no more." Oh thank maple, _finally_.

"So! Anyway, while you're here, there's something else," I say, and quickly slide the birthday card and envelope across the table. "He sent me that a long time ago, one Canada Day." Arthur takes a long look at it and reads the message while I pour his tea. "Milk?"

"Yes please. I - oh, gross, that's right," he says as he looks up, "you don't use the pitchers that close. Well, I guess it's fine. Don't know how your milk doesn't smell like fridge."

I narrow my eyes. "How terrible does your fridge smell, anyway?"

"Oh, you know, leftovers."

I shouldn't say it, I shouldn't say it ... but exhaustion and stress, like beer, do terrible things to my politeness filter. "If you made tastier food, maybe you wouldn't have to have leftovers all the time."

"Right, that's it. You want to do this yourself, you can."

"No! No no, I'm - look, I'm sorry, it's just been a really weird day, as you can tell. You're now the fourth person I've gotten to help me on this and the previous three had no real leads."

England is immediately suspicious. "Who were the previous three?"

"Uh, Italy, Prussia and France."

This grabs his attention. Nothing placates England more than knowing he's succeeded where someone - particularly France - has failed.

"Well," he says stiffly, trying not to look too puffed up, "because you're family, and all," and takes up the envelope again. "And did those wankers have anything to say about this?"

So I explained to him what Italy had had to say (not much), what Prussia thought of it (I neglected to mention Germany's warning), and what France had told me about Russia himself (nothing conclusive).

England thinks a moment more and then snaps his fingers. "Think I've got it."

"What - _really?_ " I should probably try to sound a little less interested; England will think something's up. "Uh, I mean, I've had this card for so long."

"Yes, there's a book I read once. Had all these elements in it. Funny title, something something Margarita. Russian author, if I recall. Nabokov, I think." He sets the envelope down with a certain amount of decision. "But it fits. The text of the message is pretty well directly referencing the book's plot."

"What's it about?"

"You and America both! Why don't you just check it out from a library instead of treating me like I'm your walking book report? Suffice it to say I think the 'big reader' clue was a big hint, but it was the big black cat the size of a hippo that was the dead giveaway. And the limes and the curvy glass representing margarita, the drink, instead of the character, Marguerite. That was a spot of cleverness, that one," he thinks aloud, "I wouldn't've expected Russia to be aware of drinks besides vodka. Of course anyone from North America would likely have picked it up, but anybody from an Eastern bloc country would be right baffled. I don't give him enough credit." England looks my way. "What's the trouble? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Oh! I just, I-I can't believe I never caught that before now," I stammer. "I should go get a copy of the book. That's probably what he wanted. Strangest form of advertisement."

"That's the spirit! Listen, d'you mind if I crash upstairs for a spell before I pop out again to meet your brother? Someone's to blame for my three hours of sleep last night."

"You didn't have to come all the way over here," I protest.

England grins and taps the envelope. "But you're glad I did," he replies.

I can barely wait for him to get upstairs before I pull out my computer to find a copy of that book. What the hell had Russia been trying to convey, that he had to conceal it from other Russians like that?

Germany's voice echoes back in my memory, and more now than ever, I realise I've got to stop seeking outside help.

\--

It was not Nabokov. It was Bulgakov. In the time it takes me to get back from driving England to the airport (in the middle of rush hour traffic), and the library, it's been three hours, which means England should be at America's in about five.

I call him up later to clarify, and all he says is, "Well, you know. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."

"This from the great reader! Next you'll be telling me you don't know who Margaret Atwood is and why she's different from Doris Lessing."

"She some kind of politician?"

I hang up.

\--

I get through about half of the book. It's a story within a story, which is always perfectly confusing and frankly kind of creepy. The story involves weird shenanigans in Moscow - the character in the insane asylum is either some poet named Ivan, or the Master. I'm not sure which one's supposed to represent Russia, because the first hundred pages of the book have Ivan as the main character and then suddenly the author claims the real hero is introduced. The story within the story involves the Matvei character, though all he does is whine about how unfair it is that Jesus died. That's nothing I didn't find in the bible all those years ago.

Does Russia think he's Jesus? Does he want me to raise hell about his treatment?

I'm still lost.

 _Aidez-moi, svp_ says the letter, but with what does he want my help? Besides getting me to read something that was banned in Russia during the time he sent me that birthday card, what does he intend to mean with the book?

I'm officially out of ideas. And half-tempted to just leave it alone, frankly. But then Kuma-thingy nudges the letter accidentally my way when he crawls over the table to sleep on the chair. And the letter _stares_ at me.

I guess ... as much as I don't want to talk to Russia, I guess I owe him this much. If he meant to send these messages - and he so far has, they're not only addressed to me but also refer to things like maple syrup and my birthday. I'm confused for Alfred a lot but there's no way he's not clear on who he's talking to - and if they mean what I think they mean... Even if they don't mean what I think they mean.

Screw it, this needs clarification.

\--

Unfortunately, looking at my calendar a bit more closely, I don't see Russia again until the APEC summit next May, which strikes me as a bit strange. Surely we can meet a little more regularly than that? I know my boss' foreign minister is so often in Russia that she just got an apartment in Halifax to be nearer to the international airport there. Gets her into Moscow way quicker.

Which gives me an idea.

\--

Which is how I wind up on a flight to Moscow sitting next to my Foreign Affairs Minister, Diane Martin, a just slightly overweight forty-something Lavalloise with dark hair, dark eyes, and at least one cat judging from her blazer. She's a pleasant enough person when you let her knit, and we left from Ottawa which means security's a little more understanding to a pair of double-pointed needles for socks.

Frankly, I don't understand all America's hype anyway, I mean the woman is clearly knitting socks with the needles, and those things couldn't puncture a balloon, let alone skin, but at his behest we've gotten all paranoid with our security too. (Hoser.)

It looks strange - between England diverting his flight plan at 2am to me hopping a plane at last minute to Moscow. And probably I should've told my boss (and he'll let me have it when I come back) but travel is a little cavalier to people like me to begin with. When the only people who really understand you at any level are in other countries, it's easy to take a long flight and to fly it frequently. Besides, what's hours spent on a plane when you're immortal?

I tend to sleep during travel, so most of my flight's unconscious, but my moments of clarity are partially spent thinking about what exactly I plan on doing. I have to corner Russia somehow, get him alone. Then he can explain just what the hell it is he meant by all of this code. What can I help him with?

The rest of the time, I'm reading that book. It gets somewhat interesting when the character Matvei comes in, but the story within a story aspect still concerns me, especially when the character appears in both stories. At what level should I be taking this? As Levi Matvei tells the devil to back the crap off - this is obviously the message delivery he was talking about - what does he want me to do? Who is Russia's devil? And will that entity grant Russia peace?

I manage to finish the novel but it just leaves me unsettled, and my dreams, when I have them, are uneasy... I'm flying above a grand ball and a bonfire, then suddenly I'm on the ground and there's a man off in the trees. Someone's screaming my name, someone else screams that they're invisible.

I wake with a start and can't get back to sleep, but with dreams like that I don't really want to, so Martin teaches me how to knit and I make her a square to pass the time. I'm glad when we finally land in Moscow.

\--

Martin introduces me brusquely to the Russian foreign aide - a tall, well-dressed, but frosty man, perhaps in his late fifties - as Dmitri-Vasilievich-Morozov, and I remember briefly from some diplomatic informational brochure I read long ago that introductions in Russia are done first name, father's name, last name. It makes me wonder whether Russia's got a middle name as well. I know his sister took one for security's sake, despite not having a father.

Russia, speaking of, looks pissed. I thought Morozov was angry but holy hell. Russia takes one look at Martin and one look at me and, although nothing changes in his face, the air around him goes still and I can feel the waves of pure, hot ire coming off him like thermal radiation. Morozov, for his part, is upset but reasonably understanding. "You did not inform me of this," he tells Martin in clipped English.

"It's not uncommon for the representative to tag along," Martin says, shrugging. Morozov gives her a look, then glances at me (I'm trying to be the picture of innocence... and trying not to accidentally disappear on everybody), and shakes his head, resigned. Martin adds, "I could ask why yours has accompanied you when this also isn't usual."

Russia is polite but sharp. "I am always cognisant of what happens at my borders. When I recognised this one entering," he says, gesturing to me, "I was alerted. You may rest assured remainder will know soon enough, for I have taken the liberty of contacting them, as per constitution." He stresses liberty and constitution particularly scathingly, and that makes me wonder.

Morozov says something to Russia I can't understand, because my Russian is pretty awful. "It can't be helped," he says in English, for my benefit. Then he shakes my hand and tells me that if I should require anything during my stay in the capital to please inform him and to please call him Dima. Russia nearly pops a blood vessel in his eyes and proceeds to have a very silent apoplectic fit. _While smiling._

I'm so very dead and I feel my skin prickle as it slowly becomes transparent. I could really have called, I suppose, and given more warning. It'd've been nicer. But that would defeat the purpose, because then Russia would've shown up with an arsenal of bureaucrats and I'd never get him alone.

Steel yourself, Mattie, and keep calm, I think, shaking off the prickling. You're just as good as he is. Don't let him intimidate you.

"Well," Martin says, completely oblivious to the hell that is Russia right now (do humans just not see this?) "perhaps you can show him around or something. But for us, we'd better get down to business, eh, Dmitri? It's your son's birthday later today, right?" And Mor- Dima beams brightly and they go off and talk.

I am halfway to following them when I feel a heavy weight on my shoulder and a firm grip. "Not so fast, comrade," Russia says, and I can feel the growl in his voice. "We should talk, and then I can introduce you to my bosses."

"Have, um, we got a lot of time?" I ask him fearfully. At his raised eyebrow I explain, "To talk."

He shakes his head. "It will have to be next time," he replies, and his voice is getting quieter by the word. "I assume you got my letter."

"Yes," I whisper. "The ... transmission was successful."

"Good. Then I need not stress how important it is that - that we must correspond solely to one another. Even now I am not ... at liberty."

Liberty again. It's got to have something to do with all of this. "I understand," I reply, "I can wait until your speech is a little ... freer. Just let me know."

Russia smiles then, and his eyes are kind. It's a split second before his body language changes entirely. His muscles tense, he pales, the sparkle in his eyes fades dramatically, and his smile completely disappears - to be quickly replaced, like nothing's happened, though it's clear to me he's distressed and almost - nervous? Is this what Russia nervous looks like? It's twice as terrifying as Russia angry.

Finally, he says more loudly, his voice betraying nothing, "Ah! Excellent. May I present to you my supervisors ..."

Russia's bosses are Svetlana-Ilinichna-Petrova, and Vladislav-Yurievich-Borovsky - Petrova is the president, Borovsky the prime minister. Both are frightening and tall, with imposing figures, high cheekbones (almost aristocratic, dare I say it), severe features, and unimpressed, dour looks.

Neither of them are overly pleasant folk. Neither of them are smiling. And neither of them invite me to call them by their nicknames.

Russia grins pleasantly at me as he stands between them. It's a smile I recognise - the one that doesn't reach his eyes, the one that warns, _tread lightly, comrade_.

\--

We spend lunch together at one of the more expensive French restaurants (I'm nervous when I see the ridiculous amount of rubles that salmon is supposed to cost - even accounting for the exchange rate - but Russia pats my hand with very quick taps, like my flesh is on fire, and tells me not to worry, because all downtown Moscow restaurants are like this - which really does not help my worries).

Then Russia takes me on a quick walking tour of the governmental section of Moscow. And then we have dinner at an Italian place down the road. When I inquire over scallop linguine about 'actual Russian food, you know, like borscht and stuff' Petrova sniffs, Borovsky's lip curls and Russia blushes bright red. It's much better if they think I'm a total dolt. Dolts get ignored, the clever get scrutinised.

Throughout the entire day, Petrova and Borovsky follow us around, not a metre behind us, while Russia and I make endless amounts of small talk about Definitely Nothing Important At All.

How the hell will I possibly get Russia alone at this rate? Even if I wait around for APEC next May, he only ever shows up at meetings seconds before they begin and leaves seconds after they end, with the bosses in tow. I know my boss is constantly hovering during my meetings, and though it's annoying, I think it's just because he doesn't understand fully what I _do_ and things he doesn't understand, he doesn't like. He's also nowhere near as creepy about it as these two, who seem to take their job titles as Overprotective Parents or something.

I don't see Russia at all the next day, and Martin implies over breakfast at the hotel that it's probably because he's busy with work. She tells me Dmitri told her that would be likely.

So I'm surprised when, just as Martin and I are getting into the cab to head to the airport, Russia stops me. Behind him are Petrova and Borovsky, looking very pissed - I don't know what about, but pissed.

"Listen," Russia says awkwardly, "before you leave." He gives me a quick hug. "Thank you for coming."

"Um," I say. "You're welcome?"

Russia releases me, beams, and drops something small and light into my hand. "For you, for luck," he explains. "You put it in your pocket."

It's a chestnut.

His bosses look murderous and he gives them a shrug. "What? I confess I am a bit superstitious."

"There is nothing to be superstitious about," Petrova insists.

Russia shrugs again. "Old ways die hard," he explains. "You know. And he has long trip to travel. Would be bad for bad things to happen to my good friend Canada."

"Since when, good friend," Borovsky grumbles.

Russia ignores him and smiles. I'm beginning to recognise all of his smiles. Sometimes they say 'When I kill you, it will make me snort with glee' or, 'You don't deserve the air you breathe; allow me to remove it from your lungs for better use elsewhere'. Others say 'I actually had a good time for once'. I saw all three of those - and more - yesterday over lunch and dinner.

This is the one that says, 'I don't know what you are talking about and I am perfectly innocent'.

There is _definitely_ something inside that stupid thing.

\--

"So! Productive meeting?" Martin asks me on the plane, purling furiously.

"I've had worse," I murmur, toying with the chestnut in my pocket.

\--

When I get off the airplane everything seems to happen very quickly, like someone's pushed 'fast forward' on my life.

Get home.

Feed Kuma-beast.

Check cellphone - forgot to turn it back on after getting off flight to Moscow - one voicemail from Alfred -

" _YO, BROSKI_ -" dammit, must remember to hold phone away from ear with him - " _Are you gonna be free after the meeting on Tuesday? Cuz I was thinking we can go hang out afterwards! By which I mean I'm gonna treat you to a beer! By which I mean my boss is totally not gonna dick yours over! Okay awesome bye!_ "

\- roll my eyes.

One from France in French telling me he'd be in town soon with boss and could they have dinner with " _Québ- euh, c'est-a-dire, Canada_ " in regards to the Jeux de la Francophonie.

Roll my eyes again; great, another 'nation within a nation' deal. In addition to putting up with France, that'll give me a headache for a week.

Must buy more Advil.

Check email - several unread despite checking it hours ago - newfound popularity, well _this_ is new -

One from Alfred saying pretty much the same thing as the voicemail.

One from my boss reminding me to go to my meeting on Tuesday with America - roll my eyes _again_ , I am not a _child_ you micromanaging _jerkoff_ -

One from Petrova, cc'd Borovsky, Martin, Morozov and some other guy named Braginski, saying how nice it was to meet me and perhaps I would do her the courtesy of informing them the next time I wanted to merely wander into Russia's borders unannounced (which sounds really dirty to a nation).

Another from my boss asking me if I really just up and _went_ to Russia, why would you do that without my say so, that is so unlike you, we need to grab lunch sometime this week I am free Tuesday so I'll see you at noon. _What_ , I am already booked Tuesday, you know that -

Another email from Martin saying she was meeting with boss tomorrow, will try to postpone admonishing Tuesday lunch with boss for perhaps Thursday when you are back from Washington, say hello to Alfred he is such a nice boy.

Must buy chocolates for Martin.

Finally, sit down with tea so weak it's the colour of dishwater and try to calm my nerves because holy _maple_ my pulse is racing and adrenaline is shooting through my veins like a drug.

Pull out the chestnut with shaking hands.

You know, this - this whole thing has been very perplexing. On one hand, I was right about Russia. On the other hand, that doesn't make me feel much better about it all - judging from Russia's reaction, he didn't even want to involve his bosses, which means I should not even involve my own, much less other countries - I'll need to go it alone. At least I know a fair bit about helping other nations, but I really need specifics. Now, when I'm going to get those, _aucune idée_. No idea at all.

I can't believe I ever thought of Russia as merely _that weird guy who says weird things_. There was a time not so very long ago that, if he'd given me a chestnut, I would have laughed - a nut giving a nut. I would have thought he's totally cracked. I would have assumed it was a mistake, that he meant to give it to America. Now I'm convinced it contains some kind of secret message.

Holding the chestnut up to the light reveals a tiny, hairline crack down the middle, like someone's split it with a very thin, sharp knife and glued it back together. I pry both halves apart with my thumbnails; the chestnut springs apart and both halves go flying. And thank god I remembered to feed the creature - who's still busy picking the meat from the bones out of the arctic char - or the chestnut would've gotten eaten by my bear-shaped vacuum cleaner.

There is a tiny rolled up piece of paper wedged into one half of the chestnut, which I almost rip in my haste to open it. It reads:

_The life that I have_  
 _Is all that I have_  
 _And the life that I have_  
 _Is yours_

_The love that I have_  
 _Of the life that I have_  
 _Is yours and yours and yours_

_A sleep I shall have_  
 _A rest I shall have_  
 _Yet death will be but a pause_

_For the peace of my years_  
 _In the long green grass_  
 _ Will be yours and yours_  
 _And yours_

_(ascending order please)_

At this point, I'd like to remind people that most of the time, I get forgotten. Most of the time, if people do spot me, they think I'm my brother. Russia, to date, has not once mixed me up for America, though occasionally he doesn't see me in meetings. He appears to notice me more since this all started.

And now he is sending me a love poem.

So my first thought was: _What_. The _crap_. And I start to panic.

Ah! but wait, something inside me remembers. This is not what it appears to be.

 _This had better not be what it appears to be!_ the other half of me - which is furiously red, mortified, and fixated on the vivid memory of Russia's body pressed close to mine in a hug - insists.

It takes three tries to type the poem's first two lines into Google because my fingers are flying and I cannot make them move any more slowly, but the search results make my stomach settle and I exhale slowly, trying to keep myself from hyperventilating.

The poem isn't original. In fact it's from the second world war, and the first thing that pops up is its Wikipedia entry, which claims it as an example of a poem code.

I _knew_ it, _poem code_. And I begin breathing more easily, though my stomach is still flip-flopping like mad.

It turns out poem codes are fairly simple to use - you agree on a poem beforehand and pick words from it, then assign numbers to the letters in the words you chose. Then the coded message looks just like a set of numbers and if you don't have the original poem, it's impossible to decode. Sure enough, Russia's got several words underlined. I just have to work numbers into a letter.

And what a fabulous excuse Russia has given me to do that with this trade business he wrote me about.

Okay, I think. _Now_ we can get started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise more interesting things will happen next chapter!


	3. Chapter 2

2\. _(september through november)_

It's been about thirteen years since I got connected online to other countries' representatives via email.

I haven't looked back once. I know England yearns for the 'good old days' of 'wholesome, face-to-face communication' where he'd get to traipse around and visit people whenever he liked, unannounced, but that's really hard for someone like me to do. Firstly, I'm difficult to see; secondly, I'm difficult to hear. This way is much better, because now I can spam people with email and be more difficult to _ignore_. Heck, I wish all our meetings were just online - almost. Not every representative has computer access and we have to take that into account, too.

I'm not alone in preferring it this way. I know Gilbert's happier with it. He tells me of the time when he knew people like Hesse and Nassau, people he says he once considered something like brothers, something like distant cousins. People I'll never meet, because they're just _gone_. Gilbert says being connected online like this allows his voice to sort of maintain its incredible amplitude despite the kingdom of Prussia having been long annexed to parts of Russia, Poland and Germany. Even though he's pretty terrified that fifty years from now, nobody will remember anything Prussian except for a certain shade of blue.

Well, okay, that's what Gilbert _means_. What he actually says is "I'm too awesome for the world to silence" and then strikes a ridiculous, overly manly pose, while I try not to laugh at him.

It's for reasons like this that we're on a first-name basis when ordinarily, like most nations, I won't let anyone I'm not extremely close to (or related to) call me Matthew.

\--

 **From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca  
** **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: September 24, 12:25 AM**  
 **Subject: In regards to your recent correspondence**

Good afternoon Russia,

Thank you for the lovely time in Moscow recently. I appreciate greatly you and your retinue taking time out of your busy schedules to show me around and hope I was not a terrible distraction. Rest assured, the next time I shall visit with appropriate forward notice. Please convey my deepest apologies to both your supervisors.

But for the main point of this email. Your letter came as a surprise, albeit a very pleasant one.

I know there are maple trees in Russia but I am not aware of any ongoing sugaring operations. At any rate I shall explain the process to you. The syrup originates from maple trees - mostly sugar and black maples - which are tapped for the tree sap in early spring. We call the farms sugar bushes, and I can think of at least 20 around the national capital region alone. There are a further 6 in Ontario, 7 in Quebec and 5 in New Brunswick. I believe there are at least 2 (but no more than 12) operational in New England but American maple syrup is, in my opinion, vastly inferior a product.

Anyway, starch is stored in the trunk and root system before the winter, and in spring is converted to sugar which rises in the sap. This is where the tapping process comes in. The sap is then collected and much of the water is boiled off.

Syrup is also graded; the typical exportable product tends to be grade #2. This is the typical colour you're probably familiar with. However, if you want something a bit more ... mature, we can grade all the way to #5, which is very dark with a much sharper flavour, and about the same colour as your average buckwheat honey. I will note the darker tends to be more expensive than the amber which is why people such as our friend Prussia tend to prefer the light (about 8$ CND for half a litre, compared to 9$ CND for half that amount for the darker).

It ought to take about 10-14 business days for a shipment roughly 4 tons to get to Moscow from Ottawa (I say this because the minimum weight requirement for such a distance is 4 tons).

Let me know if you're still interested and I'll forward some paperwork. Frankly - and this is just between you and me - Prussia has been getting lax in his payments (he still owes me about 15 grand) and I do not think a little competition with a better customer would go amiss.

Regards,  
Canada

(PS- There's a strike at Canada Post, so I hope you'll forgive me for not replying in kind and sending this to you via snail mail. I know it's always nice to get actual letters that aren't junk, but I wanted it to arrive within the year.)

\--

 **From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru  
** **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: September 29, 2:47 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: In regards to your recent correspondence**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

Dear Canada,

Thank you for your email; it made me smile.

If your winters are anything like mine I suspect the merest hint of spring does not occur until late February at luckiest, so supposing sugar season begins in March - that is some 6 months hence counting October - I think it would be appropriate to start the paperwork now. We can order more than 4 tons, yes?

Playing it safe - I am personally of the mind that the darker the better but that is not speaking commercially - we should probably start with grade #1 and work up from there.

Incidentally, we have an evening's layover in Ottawa on our way back from Washington in mid-November. Would you have time for dinner, perhaps the 16th? Please pass the invite along to your supervisor, of course.

Yours,  
Rossiya (Russia)

(p.s.: You are far too kind to the former state of Prussia.)

(p.p.s.: What were you doing awake at midnight?)

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: repassist@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: September 29, 3:02 PM**  
 **Subject: fax # change request**

Hi Lisa,

Think you can organise a re-direct on my home fax? I need anything sent to (613) 202-5620 to go to it for perhaps the next three weeks.

Thank you!  
Matthew Williams

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: clearlyawesome@gmail.com**  
 **Date: September 29, 3:05 PM**  
 **Subject: when are you in town next?**

Hey Gil,

You said you and your brother would be in town sometime in November right? When was that again?

Let me know. Thanks,  
Matt

\--

[Messages]

-> Told you already, for American rumpelstiltskin. Whenever that is. Srsly when is it again?

-> THANKS GIVING. THE GIVING OF THANKS. FREAKING TURKEYS AND ALL THAT. Omg autocorrect is ruining my life

<\- Haha yeah, you want to go to England's for Rumpelstiltskin.

<\- Anyway just curious, and trying to set up schedule for November, thanks for letting me know.

<\- Also you know I'm making goose this year right? Pretty sure I told you?

-> Man you and West both, setting up your schedules a month in advance. Ridiculous.

-> Yes you told me. Good is fine.

-> Ah CRAP it got me again

-> GOOSE WILL BE DELICIOUS THANK YOU

<\- Sure thing, sausage fingers.

\--

**From: repassist@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: September 29, 7:29 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: fax # change request**

not a problem. done

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru, colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: September 29, 8:03 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: In regards to your recent correspondence**

Dear Russia,

Alright, I've just now faxed a bunch of stuff your way. If it's not there soon give me a shout.

You can either fax back or scan and email; whichever you prefer, but if you fax, please don't use the number I sent it from - that's a common departmental line. I have a private number at 202-5620 that you can use that'll send directly to my place in Ottawa.

November is pretty quiet for me. I'm unavailable the 6th and 7th, and for America's Thanksgiving, but besides that I'm at home all month. Give me a call around 5 or whenever you get in from Washington; I'd be happy to show you around Ottawa. Prime Minister Campbell sends his best.

Regards,  
Canada

(PS - Couldn't sleep, change of seasons. Do you get that too?)

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru, colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: October 13, 3:18 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: In regards to your recent correspondence**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

Dear Canada,

Please see attached forms.

Yours,  
Rossiya

6 attachments - download all attachments  
[Procurementofgoods.pdf]  
[Taxaccount_startup.pdf]  
[Records_holding.pdf]  
[Federalpermissions.pdf]  
[Signatories.pdf]  
[pridstavitelPS_engcopy.pdf]

\--

Wait a minute.

He didn't change the names of the files, so there isn't any message there. And he's added one of his own which - when I open it - appears to be an English translation of a Russian governmental form. To request communication between us. Sure, I'll sign it and fax back, but aren't we already communicating?

Unless his message is just 'h' for 6? It couldn't be...

Glaring at the computer screen doesn't help. "What do you think?" I ask Kuma-thing.

He looks at my laptop and then looks at me. "Food," he says simply.

"No, you've already had dinner. I mean what do you think about the message."

"There's no message," he replies, and gets off my lap to curl up on the couch. Probably figures that if I'm not going to make myself useful as a food-getter, he won't make himself useful as a lap-warmer.

This... is distressing. First I asked him _what is it you need_ ; and he said _help_ , so I said _with what_ , and now nothing.

Could it be the people who are watching him are already on to us?

No, that's ridiculous. This is paranoia talking.

Still... it wouldn't hurt to have an excuse to speak with a lot of numbers...

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: k.i.chernenko@rada.gov.ua**  
 **Date: October 14, 8:08 AM**  
 **Subject: question for you**

Hey Katya,

Are you going to be in Alberta sometime soon? Let me know, I'll be out that way myself in a few days. We should catch up!

Sincerely,  
Matthew

\--

**From: k.i.chernenko@rada.gov.ua**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: October 14, 1:15 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: question for you**

Hi Matthew!

I am here now actualy in Edmonton. I will be back at dacha day after tommorrow though. Flight lands at noon. Come for dinner at dacha, maybe 6 o'clock? Bring wine, I will make borsch!

Katya xoxo

\--

"So what made you come out all the way over here?" asks Katya.

It's tempting to make a quip about the borsht, but as amazing as it is, that is not why I came. "Oh, you know. Boss is in the area doing the usual oil things. I need to start taking better care of these issues, or else we'll really piss off the greener countries." Understatement of the century, thinks the country who ratified and signed Kyoto, and whose emissions are 24% higher than the maximum requested target.

But that is not why I came, either.

"Ah, I understand," Katya says, "you know, half the time I come here solely to get away from - well, I don't want to sound unkind..."

She trails off in a manner of wanting to talk about something sensitive and needing to be goaded into it.

I raise my eyebrows in what I hope is a prompting manner and not invasive.

It works. "Russia has been asking for the gas payments, and ... and I regret that there is no more money for to give him, in the old country. This is one of the reasons I have been here so often recently."

"He's your brother," I reply, "I'm sure he can make some sort of arrangement with you."

"Yes, I think so too, but things are different. For example, if your brother owed you money, you wouldn't insist on it."

"I wouldn't, but my boss might," I muse.

"I doubt it is his bosses that are the problem," Katya says sadly. It's unlike her to be so pessimistic.

We eat the borsht silently for a minute. "Well," I say over a slice of rye, "if you have them handy, why don't I take a look at your farming records here and the gas invoices from Suncor? I can see what I can do at my level tax-wise, see if there's anything we can do. Worse comes to worse, it's a lost cause, but you've been doing a lot of farming here, and a lot of farming over there, and there's enough oil expenses. I should be able to finagle something."

Katya looks like Christmas came early and clasps her tiny hands to her giant chest in a heartfelt swoon. "Oh, Matthew! Would you do that for me?"

Accounting classes definitely come in handy. And besides my ulterior motive, it never hurts to have a beautiful woman like Katya on your side, I think, as I pore over the records later. She's got them pretty well organised, so it isn't difficult.

But more to the point, I have an evil plan at works.

And speaking of people on my side...

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: hero@ic.fbi.gov**  
 **Date: October 27, 11:47 PM**  
 **Subject: Thanksgiving**

Hi Alfred,

I know you're usually busy doing your own thing for your own Thanksgiving but in case you don't have any other plans, Prussia (he says you can call him Gilbert btw) and Germany were going to drop by, which means the Italies will probably tag along. Could be fun? Better than spending it with your boss!

Let me know.  
Matthew

\--

[Messages]

-> That depends.. What are you making?

<\- Goose. It's unamerican, but delicious.

-> I WILL SO BE THERE.

-> I was gonna make a turkey, but it can stay in the freezer until xmas

-> But just cause I'm, yanno, your brother and the hero and all

-> Excellent. Swing by round 4?

-> Wait Is engaldn coming?

<\- Not unless you want him to...?

-> Hm

-> Lemme think about it

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: arthur.kirkland@homeoffice.gsi.gov.uk**  
 **Date: October 28, 12:02 AM**  
 **Subject: American Thanksgiving but in Canada**

Want to come? So far it's me (as in Canada), America, Prussia, Germany, and the Italies haven't said they'll come, but I think they probably will. Am making goose. Weekend of the 25-27th. Bring the Celts if you want.

-Canada

(PS - this is Canada.)

\--

**From: arthur.kirkland@homeoffice.gsi.gov.uk**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: October 28, 2:55 AM**  
 **Subject: Re: American Thanksgiving but in Canada**

Sure, why not.

Can I bring gin instead?

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: arthur.kirkland@homeoffice.gsi.gov.uk**  
 **Date: October 28, 3:04 AM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: American Thanksgiving but in Canada**

Gin is ... sort of like your Celtic brothers?

See you in a month.

In Ottawa.

Ottawa, CANADA.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: repassist@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 2, 2:29 PM**  
 **Subject: favour**

Hi Lisa,

Can you create me a business number of 711 410 711 with at least 3000 dummy records in all available program accounts as appropriate? It's to be a placeholder account for the current Alberta business whose federal number is 110 942 327.

Please copy the existing records and fill the remainder of the 3000 with fakes, please. Tell Ashok in CRA (do not email him please, actually go over there and bug him in person) that if any inquiries should occur on the 711 account, he is to call me first and I will handle them directly.

Thank you kindly!  
Matthew Williams

\--

**From: repassist@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 3, 1:29 AM**  
 **Subject: Re: favour**

ok all done. req'd BN ready to use. records go back to 1892. i had too much fun with photoshop.

also im now out of taxi chits. 2 more books pls?

\--

[Messages]

-> Ok he can come.

-> Heros should be nice like that.

<\- Awesome, I'll let him know immed.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru, colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 3, 3:18 PM**  
 **Subject: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**

Hi Russia,

Was in Alberta recently and stopped by to see your sister. I took a look at her tax records and found a few peculiarities that I'd like to take a closer look at. The files - vendor invoices from Suncor and Ukraine's records from farming, plus her previous two tax returns - are attached in the zip (sorry about the wonky attachment name, it gets autogenerated from our federal site with the name of the first record).

Please provide me the same from the Russian side of things.

Thanks,  
Canada

1 attachment - download all attachments  
[BN711410711-RC1254.zip]

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru, colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 5, 9:38 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

Dear Canada,

I am very glad you drew this to my attention. I looked into it immediately and I too have found inconsistencies. I regret my sister does not have a personal accountant so thank you for your own efforts.

First: there is some trouble on page 14 of the 9th form. Line 5 does not match line 3 but it should. What software were you using? If I am not mistaken, it appears to be one of America's. I know I do not always have faith in his products but this is an obvious bug. The most recent (11th edition) was released 04/04 here, meaning - my forgiveness, please - yours is at least 5 years out of date. I have an English copy of the 9th edition that I can send you that is much better and has a few of the kinks worked out. You will need the CD, but due to some necessary internal checks, I cannot send it immediately. I will try to have it mailed out by November 12.

Second: I admit I am not an accountant, but I think there is an error in a similar file on our side in regards to paying taxes for work done in one country while residing permanently in another. In Russia - and so too with Ukraine - there are several forms that you typically have to fill out for this. However, for our purposes, we may elect to have Ukraine registered as an owner of a dacha (summer home). She is, after all, not there 7-8 months of the year, although I understand she has a fairly permanent staff in Canada to take care of things in her absence.

The difference is, in Canada this is still considered a permanent residence; in Russia (and Ukraine), it is not so. So one of the forms you have sent - 181-017-6 - will not be needed. This would also work out better for her, credit-wise. For your reference, please see the attached copy entitled F56487111, which is a similar procedural application, though it takes place in a different province. This is a Russian form, but in speaking to the correct department at the Verkhovnaya Rada Ukraini I am told the forms are identical.

Third: as for the invoices, I take issue on the one dated 4/7 through to the 15th of that month where you have mentioned some 8 million L of heating oil. Canada, this simply cannot be right. By my estimates this should be more like 12 million. No lower than 10 million for certain. 12 million is roughly where she would be for operations in Ukraine and they are roughly the same scale as her operations with you. Has she updated her Canadian equipment?

Last: are you still free on the 16th for dinner? Our flight gets in to Ottawa at 3 pm. We leave the 17th at 5 pm. We will give you a call at 5 after we have landed and settled at the hotel, though it may be more like 6 if air traffic from Washington is no good. They force us to wait longer and longer these days. I also will admit to having my concerns over the aircraft; this airline still uses Cessna 414s for certain trips, and while ours will be younger than some 55 years old I have my misgivings, especially considering the crash some 4 years ago.

Anyway it is getting late, and some of us have an 11-hour flight to Kolyma tomorrow.

Yours,  
Rossiya

(p.s., Really, I am glad you caught this. As you know the relationship between my sister and me can be described mostly as estranged. It is something I very much regret but times being what they are I cannot do much about it. If you should go see her again please give her my best.)

1 attachment - download all attachments  
[12form_taxes.pdf]

\--

My first thought with this email is 'well damn, Russia's being really obvious now'. Then I decode the thing and think, oh crap - dammit crap hell _maple_ , this is not good.

I asked him _are you alright_ , and he comes back with _not free to say much they already suspect the letters_.

Well let them suspect, I think furiously, they won't figure it out _that_ soon. And meanwhile, we could step it up with a little distraction ploy.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: repassist@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 5, 9:59 PM**  
 **Subject: fax # changes, again**

Hi Lisa,

Need another re-direct. Send anything for 613 202 5611 or 613 202 5621 to 613 202 5620 (which is already redirecting to my home line).

Thanks,  
Matthew

\--

**From: repassist@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 5, 10:10 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: fax # changes, again**

done. but i gotta ask, this is the 3rd time you've asked for something like this. what's up? should i be worried?

-lisa

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru, colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 5, 11:13 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**

Dear Russia,

Okay, I have some problems with these lines on your example form...

line 15 - page 2,

line 12 - page 5,

and line 11 - page 7, which refers back to line 17 on page 5 again.

Well okay, not really 'problems', more like, 'I want to pick your brain about these and don't want to read the Russian constitution'. Can you give me a call maybe in the morning - my time - about these issues? Try 202 5611 (you may have to dial 9 for a line). The -20 number I sent you before is the fax line, as is 202 5621.

There is - I think - a mistake in the invoice from 4/1 to 7/11, in particular the meter marked S1012. Is that right, 59L to a building of some 18 hundred square feet? I guess if it's just a grain silo... And Gazprom's figures for November - actually, is that 9/11, or 11/9? At any rate that reminds me of an error in my files. Can discuss when you call - again, don't call the -20 number I gave you before, that's the fax.

Regards,  
Canada

(PS - Am going to see her this weekend actually. Will pass along greetings but it may make her cry.)

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: repassist@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 5, 11:24 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: fax # changes, again**

Lisa,

No, do not be worried. Everything is fine, I'm just helping a friend out of a tight spot at hte moment. Everything's cool with Canada and that's all you need ot ever be concerned about. This is external.

Also please do NOT tell Colin. I can't think of a non-fishy way to say 'don't tell my boss about this' so I won't bother. Just don't tell him. And if he asks, mysteriously have other places to be.

Please trust me on this, okay?

-Matthew

\--

**From: repassist@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 5, 11:26 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: fax # changes, again**

it's a good thing i love you, Canada.

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru, colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 5, 11:31 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

Canada,

I regret that there are circumstances preventing me from calling you. But we shall talk over dinner in two weeks, yes?

Yours,  
Rossiya

(p.s. - About what?)

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru, colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 5, 11:32 PM**

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return

Hi Russia,

That'll have to do. See you then.

Regards,  
Canada

(PS - You're her brother. You'll know.)

\--

**From: petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: November 6, 12:07 AM**  
 **Subject: Your one and only warning**

Williams,

I do not know what it is you are planning but you will cease it immediately.

I will not hesitate to invoke your superior office in this matter. Do not force my hand.

Svetlana Ilyinichna Petrova

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: November 6, 12:09 AM**  
 **Subject: Out of Office AutoReply: Your one and only warning**

Please note that I will be away from the office until Monday, November 8. During this time Eva Lebreton will be exercising all signing authorities. Please continue to route all correspondence to this office in the usual manner. Thank you.

Veuillez prendre note que je serai absent du bureau jusqu'au 8 Novembre. Durant mon absence, Eva Lebreton exercera tous pouvoirs de signature. Veuillez vous assurer que toute correspondance soit acheminée à notre bureau de manière habituelle. Merci.

\--

"I hear I am rich now," Katya laughs when she answers my knock at the door of her summer cottage. I pass her the updated tax return - with cheque - from CRA. "Well, rich _er_ ," she corrects herself, looking at the amount on the cheque.

"I don't know whether that's enough to send you home for Christmas responsibly." I don't want to inquire into her finances any more than I already have.

"Oh, that is okay," she replies, smiling, "Come, there is food!"

We have a quick dinner of soup, rye bread and pickles and are discussing other aspects of the return - I remind her about the sections she keeps missing which would allow her to accumulate credits and carry them forward from year to year - when the phone rings. One long ring, followed by two shorter ones. "That is long-distance," Katya says, curious. "I should take this."

"Don't mind me at all," I say, "I'll still be here."

Since I can't understand a word of Ukrainian - or Russian for that matter - besides _da_ and _nyet_ , I don't feel quite so bad leaning on the threshold of the kitchen listening in. Besides, it's the best I can do for friendly moral support at the moment, as her smile fades, her shoulders hunch, and her expression slowly sours. Her tone goes from friendly, to placating, to pleading, to mildly offended, to weepy.

And then finally she bursts into tears, and my heart breaks a little. I must have some sort of hero complex after all.

I definitely know where I've seen her smile before. Her brother has the same one, and when they're truly, honestly happy, it's enough to light up a room. And when it's anything less than 100%, it drives a stake through your chest. (In Russia's case, for slightly different reasons.) I don't even know what she's talking about - although I certainly have my suspicions - but I'm already thinking of ways to make it better, ways to get that smile back.

Besides, it's more than partially my fault. _Distract with row with Belarus tomorrow_ , I told him.

Somehow Russia's distraction with Belarus must have dragged her into it, and I am so sorry that it had to happen. Maybe I should have thought about that first...

But before I can get too lost in berating myself, Katya slams the phone back on its cradle and begins to wail.

\--

A half hour later, once she's calmed down and is breathing a little more normally (and the shoulder and breast of my shirt are soaked - not like I really care about that), she explains.

"That was Belarus," she says. "Also my sister, as Russia is my brother."

"Didn't have good news?"

"Oh, no! Big understatement," she jokes, still sniffling. "You must understand. She has had same boss for thirty years now. Same human. There are elections, but - it is like that time when I had riots, you remember, yes? Well with Biela, it is like that all the time now. Elections are jokes, they are unfair. It is not a happy place, and so Belarus is not a happy person now."

"I see." Quite frankly, I would like to know of a time when Belarus was a happy person.

"And, and her and Russia - and I do not agree with this, please, but they have some kind of strange union I am not in. It is exclusive and it makes me kind of sick. And to be honest I blame Belarus and her ridiculous anger for all this strange hype of 'Ukraine is enemy of state' image that Russia appears to have."

"No! I'm positive he doesn't think that of you!"

"But he does, I _know_ he does, he has said so!"

Backpedalling very necessary. I'm making no headway here on the conflict and only making Katya cry harder. Not nice, Matthew. Think hero... what would Alfred do?

Katya presses her face into my shoulder and her very ample chest into my body and I forget all about what Alfred would do. I am probably redder than borsht right now. "U-uh, well, did Belarus say anything about Russia on the phone?"

Katya sniffles. "Well, I should explain backstory first. There have been rumours of corruption as I have said with Belarus. She is being undemocratic. And this union with Russia is not good for him for this reason, because so soon after some eighty years of the same party... Russia needs to be able to choose his boss for once!"

"I'm inclined to agree," I murmur, stroking her back gently.

"Anyway," she continues, "there was incident a few years ago - riots, you know - and he asked her to do investigation. We never heard of these results of investigation. Presumably she did the work but I never heard of the outcome. Now, he asks out of nowhere for the results, and so she hands over the work. Of course what he sees is simple - main opposition people in riots mysteriously disappearing, demonstrations - even ones not violent - being recorded and those participating targeted later by police, it is the usual.

"So Russia merely puts name to the ugly face and says it to her, and she got angry. She said she called him hypocritical and judgmental, and perhaps may he clean his own doorstep before - oh, but this is vulgar - before shitting on hers."

I try not to laugh too hard, but the mental image is hilarious and a giggle escapes me. She smiles, though wanly. "Um. Sorry."

"No, it is nothing. My sister certainly has way with words. I asked her what he had to say to that, and she said not much, though Premyer-Ministr Borovsky and Prezident Petrova had much to say. All not repeatable here! Far too vulgar. Anyway, this was yesterday. Few hours later, Russia cancels all gas delivery to Belarus' capital city and says it is high time that his _dorogaya_ pay the money everybody else pays, since she gives him no respect.

"Well Biela doesn't like that, and complains, and he tells her not to complain when money she is making is going to finer dresses and prettier knives and not actually solving problems such as infrastructure." Katya sighs. "And that is when he brought me in as example, because Kiev - well of course, Kiev is not part of glorious Belarussian and Russian Union State, because who would ask Ukrayina to join any such state! Is not like I need medical care or education or social programs or anything, no, of course!"

"Which is when she called you up to complain?" Katya nods and sniffles, her chest heaving, _oh jesus Matthew stop noticing her chest_ , and before she begins crying again I pat her on the head, trying not to be too awkward about it, and she leans back onto me. "Ah, gosh. I'm sorry, Katya, this is really rotten for you."

Part of me hopes, as I'm holding a silently sobbing Ukraine, that the phone will ring again. I really wouldn't mind giving Belarus what for.

By the time Katya stops crying it's been an hour, and the soup has gone cold. "I am sorry to be such miserable company tonight," Katya says, shaking her head. "But I am just no longer in mood to entertain."

"No worries," I reassure, "no worries at all. I understand completely, I've been in this situation before." She still looks sad so I tilt her chin up to look me in the eye. "Feel better soon, okay?"

She pouts. She looks _miserable_. "I will."

"Okay. Oh - also," I remember, "America's coming up the weekend of the 24th this month. If you're still in Canada, hop a flight to Ottawa, there'll be a bunch of us there. Saturday night. Not quite a party but more than just a dinner, you know?"

Katya smiles in a sort of sad, self-pitying way. "It is nice of you to invite me," she says in a tone that says 'thanks, but no thanks'.

"Katya. It's not a pity invite. You should hang out with us - none of us really have friends outside of... _our kind_. We'd genuinely love to have you." She blushes and doesn't meet my eyes. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us."

I'm on the plane back to Ottawa before I remember I didn't get to tell her Russia said hello. But that's probably for the best, given her state at the time.

\--

**From: rose@defense.gouv.fr**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca, 213 others**  
 **Date: November 7, 2:45 PM**  
 **Subject: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

How long did I say this would take? Hmm??

I believe the correct answer is four months, two weeks and a day. Which falls into my prediction bracket!

Which means I win the pool. Pay up, Romano.

\--

**From: der.vertreter@bmvg.de**  
 **To: rose@defense.gouv.fr, 213 others**  
 **Date: November 7, 2:48 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

EU members take note: this is an exceedingly irresponsible way to do business and it will ultimately lead to economic disaster. Mark my words.

The rest of you: stop paying attention to France. You are merely feeding the fire.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: rose@defense.gouv.fr**  
 **Date: November 7, 2:51 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

Interesting. M le redacteur, tu peux me donner les infos?

\--

**From: rose@defense.gouv.fr**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 7, 3:02 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

Oui mon beau, je pourrais _t'informer_ des infos, bien sûr. (Cessons de parler en anglicismes, hein?)

I was not present at the altercation but my old friend Serbia was hanging outside and heard most of it.

Apparently Russia had requested an investigation after the dairy incident a few years ago, and so he asked for the results. She gave them to him, and he evidently didn't like what he read because he accused her of violations and corruptions. Well, I don't blame him! But she claimed the shovel mocking the poker, so that got Russia's bosses into a huff, which got Belarus' boss into a huff.

So then, during the war games recently - have you ever heard anything so absurd in your life, I really doubt there is much game-like about them - Russia cancels gas delivery until Minsk can pay international prices, claiming that the money Belarus pockets by paying cheaper gas bills, is just going into the upper echelons of that corrupt government and nobody else is seeing a cent.

Belarus says what's wrong with that.

So then Serbia said that Russia said something along the lines of, 'all I'm saying is Kiev pays more money for less gas than you do and still manages to direct it responsibly into the right hands'.

Then Serbia said Belarus said something about favouritism and 'you've always loved her more I knew it', and now they're not talking.

Also, stp could you remove the out of office message, if you are replying to emails you must be in the office...

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: rose@defense.gouv.fr**  
 **Date: November 7, 3:14 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

France, merci.

En effet je ne suis pas 'de retour' à ce moment. Je reviens demain.

\--

**From: rose@defense.gouv.fr**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 7, 3:17 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

Ah, ce n'est pas bien de se cacher de son chef!

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru**  
 **Bcc: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 8, 9:03 AM**  
 **Subject: In re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**

With respect, President Petrova, I have not given you a name besides Canada, and therefore I request that you refer to me as such, regardless of what you can deduce from my email address.

I also do not see what importance this bears on your Federation. I included both yourself and Prime Minister Borovsky on the cc list as formality and because the Russian representative has been doing so since our correspondences began; so, it would be polite.

This matter is nothing more than correspondence between a man and his sister.

And all the taxes that they owe me.

But mostly between a man and his sister.

Sincerely,  
Canada

\--

**From: petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: November 8, 1:20 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: In re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**

I was not as you say born yesterday.

Fine, we shall play games. I will be looking into this matter myself.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru**  
 **Bcc: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 8, 5:03 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: In re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**

You have my blessing to do so President Petrova, though I admit I do not know what you expect to find.

Sincerely,  
Canada

\--

**From: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 14, 12:54 AM**  
 **Subject: What the hell are you doing**

Just got back from a week in Washington and what the hell is this shitstorm. Jesus Matthew, this is as close as you get to inflammatory without actually saying the words 'bring it on'.

Mind explaining to me what's going on with Russia?

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 14, 9:03 AM**  
 **Subject: Re: What the hell are you doing**

Colin,

Nothing's going on with Russia. His bosses seem to think something is afoot when all I did is look into a friend's tax returns. As a registered accountant I'm even legally allowed to do that.

The small difference being that the friend in question is the representative of Ukraine, elder sister to the representative of Russia.

This is still no place for Russia's bosses to stick their noses into. It's just a tax inquiry. Happens to all of us.

I'd be grateful if you could please tell the Russians the cold war ended with Yeltsin because frankly I think Petrova wants to shoot me.

\--

**From: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 14, 9:57 AM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: What the hell are you doing**

You're damn right Petrova is going to shoot you. You know she and Borovsky are both ex-KGB, right?

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 14, 10:13 AM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: What the hell are you doing**

How the holy maple did these people get elected?

\--

**From: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 14, 2:18 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: What the hell are you doing**

How the holy fuck do you think.

Just got off the phone with Petrova. Nice long chat. Delete all emails relating to the tax inquiry. We need to have lunch. Tomorrow, 1pm after the meeting with Treasury Board. They're all going out for Indian anyway and I want a convenient excuse not to have heartburn.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 14, 2:21 PM**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: What the hell are you doing**

There is nothing wrong with Indian food. You just need to stop letting Singh antagonise you into ordering the spiciest thing on the menu.

It's okay to be a spice virgin, Colin.

\--

**From: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 14, 2:23 AM**  
 **Subject: Nobody likes a smart ass**

Delete the goddamn emails already, Matthew.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: November 14, 2:26 AM**  
 **Subject: Everybody likes a smart ass**

Fine, but just remember, we're taking the Russians out to dinner on Wednesday.

I think India Palace would be nice.

\--

Okay, so it's clear I don't like having luncheons with my boss.

First of all, I don't really like my boss. He's the same old prime minister I've had for the past twenty, thirty years - elderly white male with fairly conservative lean - same style, same look, same politics, different human being.

I admit it, I never really got over my crush on Trudeau.

Colin Campbell in particular was elected mostly thanks to promises made to Ontario and Quebec that, between you and me, he doesn't intend on keeping. Funded by Alberta oil, he's also not terribly popular in the Maritimes or BC. And you can bet the North doesn't think he's anything special.

Since I represent all of Canada - and that's no exclusions - this means that I feel pretty dissatisfied most of the time. And so I send him emails that are less than super nice. And I honestly don't even feel that bad about it anymore.

The other reason I dislike having these luncheons with my boss is because he orders in takeout, and it's usually burgers. At first I thought this was on purpose, because he didn't like me (because that's what I would've done). But then he said it was because "ethnic food is weird". At least it's Harvey's this time and not McDonald's (which we had yesterday) but the greasy smell of french fries does nothing to settle my stomach after the tense two-hour meeting with Treasury Board about how much money we don't have.

As much fun as those guys aren't, I would suck it up for a decent chicken tandoori.

Colin closes the door behind him. We're in the Quiet Room, so named because it's sound insulated something like four times. I don't use it often.

"So maybe you can begin by telling me what the fuck you think you're doing?" he says.

"Absolutely nothing at all," I explain patiently.

"Come on, Matthew, don't give me that nonsense."

"No, I mean it! I mean, here's what I did. I went out with you to Edmonton, we parted ways in the airport, you went off to Calgary. I went to see Ukr- the Ukrainian representative - she has a summer cottage out near Saint Paul on the other side of the lake. We had a nice dinner, she mentioned by way of passing her troubles back home, I asked if there was anything I could do, and before you knew it I had a folder of invoices and tax returns. Simple as that."

I neglect to mention the point where I've been sending coded messages to Russia, and when he tells me that they - whoever they are - suspect our email exchanges, that I tell him to distract them by picking a giant fight with Belarus, which explains current events in Russia and Belarus.

"Okay rule one, stop volunteering," Colin says.

 _No_ , I think sullenly, and scowl.

"Rule two, why do the Russians care if that's all you were doing?"

"How should _I_ know?" I ask. "Didn't you just say you got off the phone with Petrova yesterday? What'd she have to say about it?"

"Nothing conclusive, she just told me to tell you off."

"It's not my fault the Russian president is super paranoid," I mutter. "I mean it, there's nothing in that tax package that I found that is illegal in any way. There are a few loopholes on our side of things that she could exploit - other people do it all the time, it's quite normal - she was putting stuff on the wrong lines and missing out on significant credits. Which helped her in other parts and before you knew it, she's got an extra four hundred grand to play with at the end of every year. For the past fifteen years. So, y'know, adjusting for inflation, and all that interest -"

"We don't do interest for tax back pay!"

"Uh, we do for my good friend _Ukraine_ ," I retort.

Colin still doesn't look happy. "Matthew, that sounds like magic. Tax magic."

"You forget the scale at which we're talking." Of course, an extra four hundred grand per year sure sounds like magic, if you've forgotten that Ekaterina Chernenko is not a regular human.

"Right," he says, understanding, "okay. So Russia."

"So Russia is her brother who also provides energy for her back home, and I thought, there is a perfectly logical reason we have these quirks on our tax forms, perhaps the same can be said with Russian forms. She pays him for the gas, but can't always make the bills so she winds up having to borrow so that she can continue receiving gas so that she can do more business which never makes enough money to pay the gas bill. It's a never ending cycle."

"Pity party aside, why do the Prime Minister and President care?"

"I don't honestly know," I reply, and it isn't a lie, although I have my suspicions. "They were elected by the country, for the country - I don't know why they care that Ukraine has extra money which is coming back to them anyway. If anything this increases ties between Ukraine and Russia which between you and me, would make their representative a lot happier. You know they haven't seen each other since Christmas '91? Can you say worst Christmas ever?" At least, for Russia.

"I said pity party aside, Matthew, and I meant it." Colin sighs. "We have another problem. Ashok from CRA came to me today saying Petrova's people are looking into this matter and requesting private Canadian files."

"Well, naturally." Though Ashok in CRA was supposed to come to _me_ , because I told Lisa to tell him to direct all correspondence regarding Katya's business my way so that we could avoid this incident with Colin. Ashok is evidently either a dick or an idiot. Mental note to have him moved to Corrections where he can do less harm. "She said she'd look into it. I didn't doubt her. She's free to look all she wants up to a point. We don't disclose everything. Not until they apply for special permissions just like the rest of the world and in so doing, disclose their reasons why they feel the need to look at these documents." Reasons which I suspect involve the representative of Russia more than anybody else.

"Except that she is the Russian president."

"We still don't disclose everything. Colin, this isn't like dealing with America. We don't just lie back and think of maple trees here. We go as far as is diplomatically necessary, and then tie things off."

I sigh. "I'm really sorry." I'm really not. "I didn't think this'd be opening such a can of worms."

"It shouldn't be," Colin agrees. "Fine, I'll - I'll do what I can on my end to shut things down quietly. Maybe this whole thing will just blow over. Because they're angry at nothing and have no reason to be angry."

In my experience, however, that's when people are most willing to keep a grudge. They're angry, and they don't know why, and rather than admit that they're angry for no reason which is silly, they get angrier because somehow it is all your fault. I hope Russia's bosses know better. It's small comfort knowing I can't die if I wind up on the business end of a martini made with polonium.

As for the emails... I get Lisa to delete them off the government's server, yes, but first, I cut a CD and print them out for my records too, the ones I keep upstairs in my closet buried under files that include a letter to East Germany requesting his help, and a Soviet-styled birthday card.

Something is very strange and the more I find, the less I like.

\--

My boss comes by my office the following morning.

"Matthew," he says angrily, "what day is it."

I look over at the clock on my computer. "The 15th," I say slowly. "It's a Tuesday. Why?"

"Apparently Petrova and Borovsky flew to Washington yesterday." I put on my best innocent face. "Don't act like you don't know anything about this."

I stop and pretend to think about it for a minute. Like I haven't had it circled on my personal calendar for two months now. "No no, that's right," I remember, snapping my fingers, "the Russian representative, president and prime minister are in town tomorrow night. It was in the emails I deleted. We're taking them for dinner, right? I sure hope you didn't forget 'cause, uh, you really don't want to stand up the Russian Federation."

Colin goes bright red with anger. "It's a good thing for you I tend to work late Wednesdays anyway," he snaps, and turns around in a huff.

"Can we still go to India Palace?" I ask, and he slams my door.

\--

Dinner is awkward, and ridiculous.

Russia's bosses don't let me sit beside him, so we're across from each other. Petrova and Borovsky flank Russia on either side, and for a good two minutes Colin thinks very carefully about where to sit.

On one hand, Petrova is the head of state. Should technically sit across from her so that he can talk to her more easily.

On the other hand, Borovsky is the one who really holds the power. So should technically sit across from him.

On either hand, both Petrova and Borovsky look like they want to introduce Colin _and_ me to a firing squad.

I watch with a modicum of pleasure as Colin's eyes go back and forth frantically, and try to contain my joy.

He winds up next to Borovsky, across from Petrova. Russia's eyes gleam and I can hear him thinking, _ah, bad choice, comrade_.

Colin strikes up a diplomatically neutral conversation which is good and will help smooth over whatever rift I might have caused by pissing off Petrova. Colin is very talented at that.

Inevitably Petrova brings the topic back to oil. But that's okay, that's Colin's favourite topic to talk about with the Russians anyway. Although I'm not terribly interested in the conversation, judging from the tenseness in voices, Borovsky and Petrova are.

Instead, I watch Russia. When the food arrives, he pokes at his lamb stew, smiling at it in a sort of idle way. He has a very expressive face, I think, and I remember thinking it only had the one expression but now, now it's different. There are all sorts of nuances I pick up.

While Colin inadvertently does a good job of distracting Russia's bosses, Russia meets my gaze head-on. I blush, feeling caught red-handed, and lower them, before I realise that doing that might look like flirtatious eye-tag.

It's okay for France to get that idea! It's not okay for Russia.

So I force my eyes up and return volley. And that is when, with a playful and toying grin, he winks. Something about the motion is just slightly unnatural, forced.

I try not to let my face change, but something in my eyes must betray me, because he does it again.

Then he blinks once, slowly. And waits. Then twice in rapid succession. And waits. A quick blink, then a longer, slow blink.

I _have_ seen this before. Old film footage of a man - one of America's - being interviewed. But my morse code is rusty and probably worse than Russia's.

A long, slow blink, with a short one - huh, his eyelashes are about the same colour as his eyebrows- jesus, keep it _together_ , Matthew, you are missing the message. Another long, slow blink, and three short ones. Finally, three short ones.

T-H-A-N-K-S.

I don't know what he's thanking me for. I haven't done anything. But the message makes me grin involuntarily. I wish I could blame it entirely on the shock at Russia's boldness, because he is sitting _right next_ to his bosses! - whom I suspect are the ones he needs to hide from - while he does this. Guy's got balls.

But I'm also smiling from the simple shock of having kept this all so quiet as long as we have. I almost can't believe we've gotten away with it, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't give me a giddy thrill. Russia has been the most interesting conversation I've had in years. I just hope it doesn't come at his expense.

Russia smiles at my smile, a sort of childish, joyful, relaxed grin, and I feel it jolt my stomach. We practically resonate, because as I watch his lips, I can't stop my own from curving up and that makes Russia's smile grow.

With great effort, we calm ourselves down.

W-H-A-T F-O-R, I blink back.

He makes it all the way through to the I in 'everything' before Petrova snaps something in Russian, and Russia petulantly turns back to his food, still smiling. A warmth suffuses me to my fingertips that has nothing to do with garam masala.

As we get up to leave, Colin makes his excuses quickly and leaves first, ditching me here with Petrova and Borovsky the wonder twins. With Colin gone, they definitely don't fancy a tour of Ottawa, although Russia seems to regret it.

But before Russia has a chance to vanish with his bosses into the taxi that will take them back to the hotel, I stop him. "Hey, um," I start, awkwardly, and rather than finish my sentence I get a better idea.

I move closer to give him a hug. Certainly, I'm just returning the gesture he showed me in Moscow, right?

But all the same, peeking over Russia's shoulder, I see Petrova and Borovsky's faces pale. I'm not sure whether that makes me feel justified or defensive.

"It was nice to see you," I say, instead of what I'm thinking, which is, _your bosses are jerks_.

"Ah, you - you too," Russia returns, about as awkward as I feel.

"Katya says hello. And that she misses you," I whisper in his ear, while I've got my chance.

Russia stops moving and freezes. Have I gone too far?

"Sh-she told me to tell you she loves you," I finish.

His arms tighten around me. "Thank you," he murmurs, and when we part his eyes are strangely glittering, and he isn't smiling for once. "This means a great deal to me."

Sometimes it's worth it to lie.

They pile into the taxi like it's a clown car and leave, and I think that, on second thought, I'm really much happier that Colin didn't come with us. I have enough trouble explaining one direction of national meddling as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm really, really, really sorry for the accidental hiatus. D: aaaaah I hope people are still reading!
> 
> Translations:  
> M le redacteur, tu peux me donner les infos?: Mister reporter, can you give me any details?  
> Oui mon beau, je pourrais _t'informer_ des infos, bien sur. (Cessons de parler en anglicismes, hein?): Yes my dear, I could _inform_ you of details, of course. (let's quit it with the anglicisms, hmm?)  
>  Francois, merci. En effet je ne suis pas 'de retour' a ce moment. Je reviens demain.: Francis, thanks. I'm actually not 'back' right now. I'm back in tomorrow.  
> Ah, ce n'est pas bien de se cacher de son chef!: You shouldn't hide from your boss!


	4. Chapter 3

3\. _(november through end of the year)_

Two Saturdays later, I make the mistake of bringing Kuma-creature with me when hunting for goose in the early morning.

"This thing is covered in feathers!" I tell him, when I find my piss-poor excuse for a fieldhound hovering over a messy carcass (which was supposed to be dinner). "You don't like feathers!"

"It's sort of like seal," he explains, and then dives his face back into the bird's breast, snorting grotesquely. I roll my eyes and look for a second goose. The flock has risen now, scared away by the sound of the first shot, but I'm in luck - there is a nice one that's either too fat to be aerodynamic or too stupid to realise there's a reason his buddies left him.

Either way, I track the bird down (by myself, because Kuma-beast is busy and I don't want to have to shoot a third bird), fire, and am very glad when it lands and I find the thing is large enough to feed all of us.

The rest of the day is filled with preparations and by 4 pm, everything's in the oven, or bubbling on the stove, or on the table, set to go. I'm exhausted.

Naturally, that's when Alfred and Gilbert show up. While they're not looking, I start the coffee machine.

Both Italies wind up coming, so I should discern which is which. Usually I just call whichever one is nearest at hand 'Italy', but that's not very polite.

It's not Italy Veneziano's first time having goose but he isn't terribly impressed about it, so he goes off to make some pasta as a substitute. I try not to be too insulted. Besides, the way in which he tells me _it's just not that tasty_ is simple and innocent, almost childish in itself, and I can't be any more insulted than that time I brought Alfred to Wonderland and a kid told him he was fat when he broke the Tilt-A-Whirl. It's obvious Veneziano doesn't intend any malice.

It reminds me of the way in which I once viewed Russia. Simple and straightforward, and if he's malicious, well, that's just kind of the way it goes. But I pour the wine before I can think too deeply on the implications of Veneziano being much more than he seems.

Italy Romano, meanwhile, has brought two bottles of a really nice Sicilian red wine, which is dark and manages to offset the typical greasiness of game. Romano's not overly enamoured of the goose, either (which is fine, Alfred's happy and Gilbert thinks it's tasty and they were who I was hoping to please), but he is surprisingly polite about not voicing his displeasure, if a bit stiff.

I think part of the problem is he still thinks I'm America, even though I cannot possibly be America since we can all hear America very clearly in the living room. There, he and Gilbert are discussing Prussia's involvement in his Revolutionary War and debating at long length Gilbert's resultant ability to call himself awesome.

(From the sounds of it, Gil's losing.)

I'm not on a first-name basis with Germany, so he too is a bit stiff. Once he has set down the dessert he's brought - some sort of apple cake - he excuses himself politely to accompany Veneziano to the living room, claiming that the silly man needs babysitting.

Kuma-thingy sleeps off the tryptophan from his earlier meal but wakes up after dinner to clear the bones, so I retire to the living room myself since cleanup is now taken care of.

All in all, it's a fairly nice evening. Nothing gets broken - no glasses, plates, or noses - and everyone enjoys the food - Germany's apple cake is really very good. Alfred and Gilbert and the Italies are loud enough that I don't even have to entertain anybody because they sort of entertain themselves, so I can sit back, relax, and put my feet up.

And fade away.

England shows up later, after dessert, having already eaten (though he jumps at the chance for cake when he enquires about the meal), and immediately offers me a drink of gin. He puts a second bottle in my freezer. "Two bottles, really?" I ask him.

"Yes, well, I need it to deal with you!" he returns sarcastically, waving the bottle in my face, and for a moment I'm taken aback by his tone of voice.

I quickly recover, figuring it out. The heaviness of the meal has left me with a pleasant lethargy, so I'm not as sharp as I usually am when I explain, "England, it's Canada."

He squints at me, takes another swig of gin, and I solidify a little. "Oh. _Oh!_ Sorry, lad. So you are. Want some gin? I've got two bottles."

"I noticed," I reply. "Why so much?"

"Wanted to get rid of it before holidays with the Commonwealth. I don't care for Australia when he gets into it. Erm. You _are_ coming, aren't you?"

I hadn't been planning on it, no. But on second thought, this is a great occasion for me to mingle with all- ... _countries_ that I'm on excellent terms with but don't see often. Countries who are close to Russia and surr- rather. Countries who are geographically ideal. Strategically speaking, it would be advisable.

"Of course," I tell him, and he seems happy to hear it.

"Good idea," Kuma-critter mumbles from the floor, gnawing a thighbone.

I don't hear the doorbell ring again until England disappears and reappears with a friend.

"Kat-ah, Ukraine!" I exclaim. I almost forget not to give away her name, which I'm not sure England knows. "You came!"

"You sound surprised," she says sheepishly, with a bottle of Hungarian red wine which she hands me and a bar of very dark chocolate which she sets down on a table. (The chocolate gets whisked away a second later by Romano.)

"I wasn't sure whether to expect you," I reply honestly, and pour her the last of Romano's bottles.

She sidles up closer to me and, accepting the glass of wine, admits quietly, "It took me awhile to realise that I didn't want to be alone."

Katya, it turns out, gets along like a house on fire with Veneziano. For one, it's difficult to tell where his eyes are looking so he doesn't come off as a giant pervert (unlike Alfred, whose eyes are magnetised apparently beyond his control, and who gets a light slap for his troubles that I have to agree he deserves). And for two, he's got this wild charm that endears him to pretty much everybody, including yours truly.

Some people just have it.

Part of me can't lie about being envious. I've ... always liked Katya. In one evening Veneziano gets farther with her than I have in a hundred years. And he's not even serious about it, he's just flirting for the sake of flirting. I'll bet he'll even manage to end the night without Katya feeling like she's been unnecessarily led on, which takes game - game that I know I haven't got. That part of me thinks Veneziano's a dick.

But, the other part of me is a little inebriated, and I'm not typically a sad drunk. Besides, it's really nice to see Katya smile so widely and genuinely. So that part of me thinks Veneziano's kind of an angel, and that part wins.

The message I get mid-evening helps to distract me from whatever self-pity I might have obtained by sulking in the friend-zone.

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**   
**To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**   
**Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru, colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**   
**Date: November 26, 9:35 PM**   
**Subject: Tax software - keygen**   
**mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

Dear Canada,

It has come to my attention that the keygen I sent you in the file - you ought to have received this by mail by now - has not been used, so here is a new one. Let me know if you still have problems with the executable.

14981760s3360d23100r9180e3570t35t7616c

Yours,  
Rossiya

\--

That... doesn't look like our code. It also doesn't look like a typical keygen, but perhaps Russia is able to fudge a little more with different software to prevent those who are monitoring him from figuring it out.

I copy and paste the numbers down in the file where I had the key - not that I really need the key anymore, I've got it well memorised (is that sad?). Sure enough, it gives me gobbledegook as-is, which means Russia must have done something to the numbers.

23100 in particular sticks out like a sore thumb. Coming from a logical standpoint ... if we ordered the characters from the underlined words in the poem in ascending order, then no matter how you slice up that word - 2-3-10-0, or 23-10-0 - it doesn't fit. And the final 0 is, what, a placeholder? We haven't used placeholders yet, so why now? (That or we have 100 letters, and the last I checked this was not the case with the English alphabet.)

Supposing he added them all together? No, that would be too many possibilities, I'd be here all evening. And the order of magnitude is wrong.

They're obviously words, separated by the letters.

He must have multiplied them. Looking at the 35, that seems likely. 35 is 7 times 5, and 7 is a, 5 is t - 'at'.

Well, it's a start.

Of course, the longer the number string, the longer it takes me to figure out - and also, these give me anagrams, that I'll then have to solve. But looking around ... Alfred and Gilbert are discussing something loudly, Germany and England are debating soc- ah, football with Romano, Katya's certainly very taken with Veneziano, Kuma-whatsit is stuffing his face...

I appear to have some free time on my hands, and an entertaining puzzle wouldn't go amiss.

I can't admit - not even to myself - how gleeful I get whenever I receive messages from Russia now, because he appears to have a genuine motivation for sending me these messages besides 'hey, here's something fun for you to do'. But it is really thrilling.

14981760 - divide that by 2, get 7490880, again for 3745440, again for 1872720, again 936360, again 468180, geez Russia hope some of these two's are 4's or this is going to be a lot of i's - 234090, once more 117045 - hah, okay, that's out of two's.

Divide 117045 by 5, gives 23409, which is divisible by 3 so 7803, which is again divisible by 3, 2601, another 3, 867, hmmm, another 3 which is 289. 289 I don't recognise as being anything other than 17 squared. So we must end there.

Then, that gives me nine 2's, three 3's, a five, and two seventeens.

The two seventeens must both be c's, since we don't have letters as far as 34. But that still leaves a lot of options. Do the letters he's included have anything to do with it?

Sure enough, for 35 being 'at', it's followed by a t. Possibly he's giving me the last letter as a hint.

So, 's' is 12, takes away two twos and a three, giving seven 2's, two three's, and a five.

Suppose there's one e - well, that's logical, it's the most common letter. So now five 2's, two three's, and a five, since 'e' is 4. We'd get two more 's's if we take four 2's and the two three's, and that leaves either i and t, or a u.

s s s i t e c c - hmm, that doesn't make any sense ...

s s s u e c c - _Ah!_

_Success_.

I almost giggle, I'm so proud of myself.

"Heyyy, what're _you_ up to, so quiet over there in the corner?" slurs Gilbert. He drapes himself over my shoulders heavily, taking a glance at what I'm typing.

I hit save quickly and snap the laptop closed. I'm sure it won't like that but whatever. "Nothing," I reply quickly. I try to be smooth about it.

Gilbert isn't so easily convinced. "Is it _pooooorn?_ " he asks in a sing-song voice, grinning.

"Yes, Gilbert, I was looking at _porn_ in the middle of a party," I reply with some significant sarcasm, but I am blushing at the mere mention, and he cackles.

"Okay bastard, shove off, be nice now," says a voice above Gilbert.

"Hey, I'm nice! I'm plenty nice, aren't I?" Gilbert must be a little soused. He flings himself off my shoulders with enough force that it nearly knocks me face-first into the laptop.

"You're something, alright," I reply.

Romano rolls his eyes. "I'm amazed you get invited anywhere," he says. "Quit buggin' the guy who fed you such a nice meal!"

"See, he never lets me have any fun," Gilbert slurs, "if it weren't for his brother I'd never bring him along!"

It's an offhand remark but it evidently makes Romano see red - and to be honest it'd piss me off too if someone said that about me (given how much everybody talks about America this and America that - even England), so I don't blame Romano when he purses his lips, gives Gil a rude gesture and walks out the door to the backyard.

"That was unnecessary," I say.

"Aw, he'll be _fiiiine_. We do this once a week. Anyway, what was I saying about porn at parties?"

Alfred overhears. "Wait, what?"

And that's my cue to exit. I duck out from the conversation and excuse myself to Gil's boisterous cackling.

Italy Romano is outside on the porch having a smoke. I bring him the only ash tray I have at this place (France never visits me in Ottawa anymore, there's a bunch more in Montreal) and say, "Sorry about him."

Romano gives a dry smile. "What've _you_ gotta be sorry for, it's his dumbass attitude, not yours." He exhales a cloud and says, "You fuckin' apologise for everything."

"Well thanks, eh? He's a bit much."

He snorts. "You're tellin' me. He was pestering me the whole way here about why I didn't bring Spain and Spain this, Spain that."

"You could've," I offer.

Romano shrugs. "Didn't wanna. I was already a friend of a friend of a friend coming, didn't wanna impose. An' I didn't know how large your place was. Besides, Spain's _loud_."

So's Romano, but I don't say that. "Y-you're welcome anytime! You or your brother. Although I have to admit, I definitely like your wines more. Uh, a-and you don't mess up my kitchen making tons of extra food."

Romano smiles briefly before the mask of sour replaces itself. "Ehh, I'm sure the potato bastard'll clean it all up if you ignore the mess long enough. Anyway. You too, huh?"

"Hm?"

"You're welcome if you want. Or if you're bored, or whatever. I don't care." He takes a last drag on his cigarette. "But only cause, y'know, you're a better cook than your brother, and you have decent taste in wine, and you don't take Prussia's bullshit."

It takes me a few seconds to realise what he's saying is an invitation, as roundabout and vague as he can make it without having to say the words 'you're invited'. It takes me a further minute to figure out what to say in reply besides a stammered thanks. In the meantime, Romano has shrugged, put out his cigarette, drained his wine and returned inside.

\--

I work out the rest of the message in my head. First I wait until Gil and Alfred are deep in conversation again and open the laptop only long enough to jot the supposed keygen onto a paper napkin.

The rest is fairly straightforward math. It takes me a good hour only due to the guesswork that I have to do figuring out which numbers go where. It'd be simpler to use primes. If it weren't for the sake of lack of small primes, a code that worked solely like this would be pretty slick, but pretty easy to figure out.

3360d with a final d gives me 2x2x2x2x2x5x3x7. And d is fifteen, so my five and three are gone, which means either a, i, e, e, d; or n, e, e, d - oh, 'need'.

92400 - r, gives 5x2x5x2x3x2x2x7x11, well 11 is r right there, so the rest is either u, u, f, e, a, r - not likely, supposing that's two t's with 5's - t, t, plus a 4 for e, - hm, that looks like 'better'.

9180 - e, okay, so 5x2x3x3x3x17x2 - the 17 must be c, so with e being 4, that's a 15 and a 9 most likely, so d and o. Code.

3570 - t. Then 5x2x3x7x17, this one is easy, 17 for c, the t gives me the 5, so remaining is 2, 3, 7. Probably h, a. Chat.

Chat at, chat at what?

7616 - c gives me 17x2x2x2x2x2x2x7, so 17 with c, 7 is a, with six powers of two, that has to be no more than 16 - p, and 4, e. APEC.

_Success. Need better code chat at APEC._

Indeed we do need a better code, but ... where? When?

Is he asking me not to send anything more? He said the letters were being suspected. If I write any more letters, using the code more would likely give them, whoever they are, more material to decode. A better ability to decode it.

I suppose you can only send messages for so long until the same numbers keep popping up; associate them with the most common English letters and it wouldn't take a master code breaker to work out the message. Anyone who's played Hangman before will do nicely.

Right. No more messages, then, until we can get figure out something more sophisticated.

It makes me more than a little sad for more than one reason.

But then someone in the party picks that moment to topple over a non-empty wineglass and I have another happy distraction.

\--

I try not to show up too early for England's commonwealth holiday celebration. Usually it starts with food, and ... I want to avoid that part.

Although England can somehow conjure up an amazing dessert, so I can't be late for that. (Sticky toffee pudding. Oh man. I could eat that all day.)

Australia answers the door with a bucket of KFC in his arms.

"Really?" I ask sarcastically.

"Mrf krsh!" he replies, swallows, and repeats himself, "of course! I wasn't going to eat _England's_ chicken." He yells back to the kitchen, "You poke the breast, it still bleeds."

"Not my fault," shrieks England from the kitchen, "it was a degree conversion thing! How was I supposed to know they meant 200 degrees centigrade! So much easier using _gas marks_ -" then there's a giant crash and a puff of smoke - "bollocks, bollocks bollocks shit damn _bugger!_ "

"Salmonella's England's gift theme this year," I joke. Then I hand him his actual gift. "Here. Something a little less biohazard. Happy Christmas, it's good to see you."

"You too, didn't 'spect you to show. Oi, and ya didn't have do this," Australia says, blushing. He mumbles, "I didn't get _you_ anything, mate."

"Oh, it's nothing, just something small. The kiwi around?"

The kiwi is, in fact, and is watching the rugby game in the TV room with Wales and Northern Ireland. None of them look up from the tube until gifts appear in front of their faces.

India's there too, and though I have to wave wildly in front of his face before he can see me, he actually greets me when he does. He also complains that rugby's boring and that once this game is through they're catching the tail end of the test match. I give him a quick kiss on the cheek as I hand over his present. He squeals in delight - because he doesn't celebrate Christmas, and he knows I know this, which means this is just for fun - then coughs to try and recover some seriousness.

Perhaps it's a bit manipulative, but little gifts are tools to me. If it's a grand extravagant gesture, people become embarrassed and defensive (unless they're narcissists). Nobody likes owing people things, and the bigger the thing owed, the less they like you for it, because the more they expect you're going to hold that favour over their heads, even if you never intend to call it in.

If, however, it's just a small token of your appreciation - and the timing is right - then people accept it a lot more gracefully. They'll still feel like they owe you - and maybe they might - but the favour they feel they must repay is so much smaller in magnitude that the stress involved is practically non-existent. And it becomes your foot in the door.

Anyway, between that and asking everybody about themselves instead of dominating the conversation with myself as a topic (like Alfred, or Gilbert), I manage pretty well, relations-wise, despite being invisible and inaudible.

By the time gifts are passed out - a little tea, and some of my homemade fudge - England has joined us from the kitchen with scorch marks on his apron and a slightly smoldering eyebrow. I reach over and pinch out the spark. "Thanks," he says. "Pudding's in an hour. Didn't think you'd show up."

"That's twice I've heard that tonight."

"Well, the last few years I've sort of mistaken you for America." England looks sheepish. "I, er, wouldn't've blamed you."

That puts a real smile on my face. "At least you got it right this time," I say brightly.

Wales overhears - evidently the rugby game's over - and slings an arm over England's shoulders heavily. "He had some help. All day we've been reminding him that America wouldn't show."

"Well," England says stiffly, ducking out of Wales' arm, "he _isn't_ part of the Commonwealth, after all." But that's never stopped the other partygoers - England included - from mistaking me for America, anyway. I need to bake cookies for whoever it was who convinced them of my existence this year.

I don't spend long at England's, at any time of the year; no more than a couple of days. Guests, he told me once, while I was staying with him, are like fish: after a few days the air sours. He backtracked quickly then, stumbling over his words, and saying that he didn't mean me, really! But I understood. And most of the commonwealthers make it a day's visit and no more (excepting Scotland, who is apparently staying with France this season, to England's utter mortification and Australia's mad glee).

As for myself, I'll stay just long enough to ... finish my task, and then I too can go home.

Wales, like Prussia, somehow manages to see me more easily than most, so I spend a fair amount of time talking to him over the next few days, and he teaches me how to make sausages and rabbit without any meat - all while taking potshots at England's character which England takes in surprisingly good stride (well, for England).

Wales hasn't quite got an army besides the Welsh Guards and the Royal Welsh - who I'll admit I know of only from being linked with _le Royal 22e Régiment_ \- so in terms of friends, it appears as though he's a poor choice. But you mustn't underestimate the fury of the Red Dragon. Or more precisely, the ability of the Red Dragon to nag England into motion. If I require England's help, it will come more quickly and be ultimately a much stronger blow if I have Wales to back me up.

Wales is also very good at nagging Scotland. And if Scotland is spending Christmas with France this year, that means I basically get France for free. Which is good, because having accepted England's Commonwealth Christmas invite means I declined France's _Noel avec la Francophonie_ invite. (It's like having divorced parents; I can never manage to make both sides happy.)

I exchange a few words with Malta, who is a swarthy and shy young girl of perhaps 14 or 15, about Liechtenstein's age. Like Liechtenstein, she has her hair styled in a short bob with rough edges, tied with a ribbon. But unlike Liechtenstein, she's a lot more independent. She's spent time with Italy - both of them - Spain, France, and England, and though she recognises England most as a big brother, they don't often have the chance to speak more than once a year. She's also had moments of extreme mil- (ahem) _military brilliance_ \- this is the tiny little girl who, with a bit of Allied help, managed to waylay Germany and Italy for six whole months, without her own army at the time - so her age and size are deceptive.

Cameroon and Nigeria show up in the afternoon two days later, which provides me a brilliant excuse to get out of having to eat England's cooking by taking them out for curry. (Though I was told later by Wales that New Zealand and India managed to convince him to order takeout instead. Still delicious. I never regret curry.)

My relations with both of them have been pretty friendly for the most part and we spend the afternoon chatting about current affairs. Cameroon's government is downright authoritarian, he says, and the southern parts want to secede. He's is good at hiding the stress; I can only see the lines in his face under fluorescent light.

Nigeria is doing _much_ better than the last time I saw her. She says the recent health projects from our developmental agency have been progressing well and the market seems to be responding positively to the input from the financial side of things. Then she starts talking about frontier economies and I get a little lost. I manage to fake knowing what she's talking about enough for her to invite me to a conference she's holding in March.

I try to say hi to Gambia but he ignores the hell out of me. Fine, you jerk, I think, be like that. See if you get any fudge.

\--

Northern Ireland leaves after breakfast on Boxing Day before we get much of a chance to talk (staying long enough for the meal, after hearing that I'm the one making breakfast). India however stays a few days longer, and we chat at long length about everything and nothing.

I don't see India very often though I know he has places all over Canada - a high rise in Toronto, a small bungalow in Vancouver, a really nice penthouse suite in downtown Calgary, and temples here and there. He also smells amazing, but as we've established, I'm fond of his cuisine. With little convincing, he makes us all a nice eggplant dish that evening in exchange for my pancakes the following morning.

This is good. This is very good. Because India would probably be the most important a- ally to have if needed. He's close geographically to Russia. Plus he's got a certain personality cultivated from years of Mughal rule, British rule, and opposition with Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka (and those are just his siblings).

It has the tendency to make him a little abrasive and a little impulsive.

In fact sometimes he comes off as borderline bipolar.

But that's okay! For the most part, he has a no-nonsense attitude that is strict but still agreeable. And we're on excellent terms, which means I could probably trust him.

"I was sorry to hear about those insurgency attacks on the trains," I tell him.

"Yeah, me too," he agrees. "What a waste. Waste of flesh, waste of bombs, waste of decent trains."

"I thought the counter-terrorism speech by Patel was particularly inspired."

"Really? I thought it was particularly _insipid_. Blah blah deeply saddened by this senseless act, blah blah cannot resolve with acts of violence. Come on, same old stuff. I can't stand my boss." His attention is mostly on the cricket match. " _No_ , you idiot, what are you - oof! _Stay there!_ Stay the fuck _there!_ " Needless to say, the batsman doesn't listen to him, and winds up out. "Goddammit, you moron, serves you right."

Ladies and gentlemen, India.

We watch in silence for awhile until the match cuts to a commercial break. It's then that India tears his vision from the television and smiles at me, very suddenly, a bright, wide toothy grin. "Okay, seriously though, maple-ji, cut to the chase."

"Uh, what?"

He laughs. "Don't play dumb with me! You know I'm older than I look. Really good dark chocolate, that was my favourite by the way, homemade fudge, and you've been chatting me up all weekend." India bats his eyelashes coquettishly. "You _want_ something."

"I can't just give an old friend a very belated Diwali gift?" India laughs even harder, and normally, I'd be laughing along too. Instead my cheeks are warm and I'm trying not to disappear. How am I so obvious to him? "You really think I'm that machiavellian?" Yes, defensive route! That always works, right?

"Hmm. And you're acting all pricey. Must be _big_ big. You want me to play the guessing game? Alright, I'll bite." He pretends to concentrate for a bit. "Lentil exports?"

"I already give you most of mine."

"That's true. Hey, have you got that solar power thing down yet? You know I'd be interested." No, and we never will if Campbell won't quit it with the oil fields. Which India knows full well, so he's teasing me, again. "Guess that isn't it. There is one other option..."

Suddenly his eyes narrow - the kohl he wears around them makes him look three times as dangerous. I feel like a mouse pinned by the gaze of a viper. "But you would never be so silly as to seriously contemplate propositioning me. Because you know I'd shoot your ass down in flames, maple-bhai."

Oh geez. "N-no! Not that - not that you're _not_ \- but I just, _well!_ -"

Thankfully he interrupts me by giggling.

He's _joking_ , that hoser.

I wish this were the first time he's done this. I also wish I could tell when it was coming because even after some seventy years of diplomatic relations, I still can't.

"I love doing that to the nice ones," he says. " _Arey_ , if you don't want things, then you must want help with things. Now - what could these things be..." India puts his hands together, rubbing the palms back and forth.

Finally he claps his hands. "I know! Pakistan's not paying his rent in his Toronto apartment and you're a pushover, so you need one proper bully with some real fight to go bug him for it?"

"No, he's been pretty cool. Haven't heard any complaints." I don't bother rushing to Pakistan's defence since he isn't even coming to England's for Christmas. This may be why India's stayed so long. Those two have a habit of calling each other various names like cheap. (In fact... most countries have a habit of calling their closest relatives cheap. It's at the point where it doesn't mean anything anymore.)

...D-Don't think that pushover comment went unnoticed, either!

I'm just, you know, holding my tongue.

"Want ISRO to jumpstart something for your space agency?"

"N- well now that you mention it, that's not a terrible idea -"

"You want to help someone in need and you're building a collection of ... _special friends_ to do it."

Not a question.

Which means he's suspected it was this all along.

But ... I can't make it look like I came here for that! You have to understand, our kind have a certain social rulebook where conflict is concerned. It would be tacky to come to Christmas solely to flirt my way to a winning side of w- of wa- of conflict.

"What would make you say that? I-I mean, you certainly are valiant but there's no sign of - of ..."

I make hand gestures to convey the meaning while avoiding saying the words.

India doesn't seem to understand.

I sigh. "Of... _you know what_ on the horizon."

"Ideal geographical location?"

"I'm on decent terms with everyone in that area," I say lightly. It's not untrue.

"What about _just in case?_ "

"There's always room for a just in case," I remind him, "you could go mad trying to plan for that."

"True enough," he says. "So, _yehi hai_ defence help issue."

I need to get him off this topic! "No, it's, it's really not. I don't need help with the defence side of things," I insist. "I have my own forces!"

"Ha, and that makes you a big boy now, does it? Is it guns you want then? Thought you might ask Russia instead."

"India -"

"Not artillery! Perhaps tanks?"

"It's not, I don't need -"

"Air power? We're not so keen on that."

I scoff. "I could ask America for those if that were it."

"Right, Mister Big Hero Pilot-ji. Then it's that stockpile of, ah, _special arms_ that I like you all to pretend I don't have; that has nothing to do with it?"

"India! No. Gosh. I've got my own nuclear stash too, this isn't -"

India is immediately silent, wide brown eyes and flatlined humour.

It takes me a second to figure out why.

What did I just _say?_ I shut my mouth with a firm snap - it was gaping open. I'm appalled at my brain for not filtering these kinds of things. Shrinking into my chair, I ask quietly, "Is there any chance I can eat those words?" Specifically the n-word.

India shakes his head, his expression somewhere between querying and serious. I feel my skin prickle as I start to disappear, but he sees me doing it and snaps, "Ohh, no you don't. Not on me, boss."

India, if I could help it, I would, believe me.

"Then I think I'm going to take a short walk, if you don't mind." I get up before he can reply, abandoning my tea - and him. (Awfully unfriendly, yes, but damn, what a gaffe that was.) I head for the door to shove on my boots and overcoat.

I should have known I couldn't lose him that easily. "Wales!" India hollers back to the TV room. "I'm taking your jacket!"

"No, I can hear alright," he calls back, too busy kicking Australia's ass at Mario Kart to hear correctly, "you're not making a racket." I burst out England's front door before India's got his shoes on.

Because _this_ is why I decided to come to England's Christmas celebration. Making special friends. Making _military allies_ \- hanging out with people because they're _useful to me_ \- oh gosh I shouldn't even be capable of _thinking_ like this. Is this all because of Colin's defence spending?

But something inside me tells me it isn't. Something's different, and it's like those times, like the world wars, when in addition to my bosses spending money on building rockets and tanks and bombs, I too felt the stirring, riotous cry of _to arms, brave souls_.

I don't like to remember those times.

So why can I _think like them?!_

What the hell is wrong with me? No country - not since the Cold War ended - speaks the n-word aloud among ourselves. I'd rather call everybody I love cheap!

First I start thinking about friends who might help in a fight. Since when did this imply a fight, anyway? Since when do I fight with weapons? I'm supposed to be the peacekeeper!

Though, that isn't strictly true, either. It is not for nothing that I receive tulips once a year, for example. The things I've done ... haven't always been playing fair.

But times have changed, and nobody fights like that anymore, right? Right?

Didn't I learn after the Suez Crisis how important it was to fight with words? Didn't we all learn after the Cuban Missile Crisis that squirrelling away ato- those kinds of missiles wasn't the way to go? Did I just forget all of that?

And - and for what? For _Russia!_ Russia, who still hasn't told me what he wants this help for. I - I don't even know whether his problems require this, this... _military allies and defence!_

Because that is what I'm doing. Let's call a spade a spade - I came out to see friends, yes, and normally that is what I do. International relations for the simple sake of international relations are what I'm really good at.

But there's been a deeper, ulterior motive at play behind my actions this season - one that I hadn't even realised I harboured - and that's making friends _in preparation of a fight_. And unfortunately I'm also really good at that.

And I was doing it _all along_ , and I didn't even realise.

Maybe Russia's bosses aren't the only ones who think the Cold War never ended.

I _need_ to talk to Russia. I have to know what I'm fighting for, since apparently, I'm already operating in fight-mode.

"Hey wait up!" I stop and turn; India's about fifty metres away. We've managed to find ourselves in a small, sleepy park. A few trees. A quiet overcast afternoon, the sky a dove grey. Snow gently dusted over the ground. People probably walk their dogs here, or, or feed pigeons.

So idyllic. It's strangely fitting how even this mocks the conflicted, torn way I feel right now. I sit down heavily on the bench, feeling glum, and he approaches and takes a seat beside me where someone has scratched 'Nurya' and a heart.

"So," he says. "You going to tell everything about this person who has caused such a great change in you? Mister peacekeeper, mister _fight with words not with arms._ "

"It's, um, complicated," I say, hoping it'll throw him off, but of course it doesn't and he just sits there, looking expectant. "There's this - this friend. And they're ... uh, in a bit of trouble. I think. I-I don't really know. We haven't had much of a chance to talk freely recently, I kind of get the impression they're being monitored, really closely. And, and I want to help."

"What can you _possibly_ do to help?" India asks. His tone is soft and gentle, but the words sting anyway. He's right. What the hell can I possibly do?

"I don't even know. I don't know if there's anything I can do. But I - I want to try. I think... I think I might be the only one who can help. That's what ...they've said to me."

"And help means one stockpile of ... you-know-what-kind bombs as just in case, hmm?"

I don't really have anything constructive to say to that.

"So have you slept with her, or are you just madly in love?" is India's first question.

It takes me a second to stop coughing. Silly Matthew, air is not for swallowing.

"Um," I stammer, when I can breathe properly again, "w-what?"

"It's got to be a she," India says thoughtfully. "Otherwise you wouldn't be tripping on pronouns like this. I know you. And there is such small number females than males, for us, you're hiding a her. Otherwise I'd be able to guess who it is. You're very obvious." He grins. "So, you like her then?"

"Oh, oh gosh, _maple_ , I hardly ..."

I don't even know what to say to that!

On the upside, this has definitely got my mind off the more sensitive topics. I'm really glad, and completely horrified, that India is suspecting this. It gives me an easy out, sure, which is good, but - but -

But I _don't_ , obviously! There's no way that I - that I -

I can't even think about it!

Russia and, and me - we're hardly even friends. I'm not attracted to him.

I mean he isn't _un_ attractive! I just - I'm _not_.

India giggles. "It's cute. Young love."

"No," I tell him. "I - it's not like that. This is just, um. This is just me wanting to help someone who seems to really need it." Someone who reached out to me and asked for help. How could I refuse?

"Yeah okay, yaar, so you keep telling yourself that. But I know you," he says, tapping the side of his nose and then pointing at me with his finger, almost admonishingly - so characteristically English a move that I might call him on it if I weren't so scared he'd break my jaw - "and _you_ are not like this. You are not like this at all."

"What, are - heh, are you saying I've changed?"

"Achha, love changes people, but no, not changed." India's eyes narrow sharply. "Chang _ing_. I don't know if I like it much."

"I'm not -"

"But countries change. This is as events are. I know I have changed; it's more than only not calling myself Sindhu Valley."

"This is why I don't talk too often," I mumble.

"No, honey, it's fine! Listen. I hope she's worth it, bhai. And you know. If she isn't you let me know and I'll good swift kick her in the dicky. Okay well I won't _actually_. But you keep your head, okay? Don't go ... being your brother. You keep calm and carry on. She wants Canada, you give her that."

I smile, though weakly.

"Also," he continues, "India will support Canada no problem, no questions."

"I didn't really. I mean, you don't have to."

"I know I don't. And you did really. But I will let you deny it if that makes you feel better." India takes a quick, deep, purifying breath. "Chal! Let's go get something to eat! And you can tell me all about your lady-friend."

Something should go here about frying pans and fires, but at this point I'm too exhausted to be witty. I just let India drag me to the nearest chip stand.

\--

Avoiding that topic is difficult. Over fish and chips India tries to worm a few things out of me and I stay tight lipped as long as possible. He asks if it's Ukraine - since she and I are so close that I use her first name, and since India doesn't know of any other female nation who's taken up permanent semi-annual residence in Canada - and I blush - partly because I _do_ like Katya (gosh do I like Katya), and partly because India's guess is so close it's terrifying - but manage to deny it.

So now India's convinced it's Katya who needs help. But that allows me an easy out to distract him, and talk about the other female nations - and other nations, period - who have emigrated in large enough flocks that their representatives have taken up residence in a Canadian city.

Which works just as well, because in the end India's got it narrowed down to a small list. And let him keep guessing all he wants, because Russia's not on it.

\--

When I return on the morning of the 31st, picking up a very well-fed and slightly heavier Kuma-whatsit from the kennel (and by kennel, I mean forest) I find another envelope from Moscow in my mailbox.

Instantly my heart begins to pound.

It's a card again, though instead of an adorable cartoon monkey with freakishly large ears, it's a picture of what seems to be downtown Moscow, with "C Hobiu Togou" written in curly script. The inside explains, _C Hobiu Togou - pronounced s novim godim - happy new year. Fondest regards, Poccur - Russia_.

I'm glad I sent him a Christmas card after all. I wasn't sure whether it'd get past whatever filters he's got, but at least I tried.

...Of course, I'm slightly less interested in the card itself.

With greedy fingers I peel back the envelope as gently as I can and slide my nail underneath the folds, where the paper is glued together. I get more than a few paper cuts for my troubles, but so what, as long as I don't bleed all over the message that I suspect is there, I'm good.

I'm not disappointed. The message written is written faintly in ink pen, so lightly that it hardly makes an impression on the other side. It isn't coded.

_Security is becoming much tighter, so this must be the last message. Still, I doubt they will find this note. Thank you for all of your help. You do not know how much it means to me. I shall see you in May. -Ivan_

My pulse races and my cheeks grow warm.

Ivan. His name is Ivan.

Of _course_ his name is Ivan. It suits him so well I don't know how I might ever consider any other option. It's graceful and elegant but still classic and simple. _Ivan_. Ivanivanivan.

I ring in the new year alone, but strangely more content than I have been in some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I keep saying interesting things will happen next chapter. But they really will! Just. _Next_ chapter. :'D


	5. Chapter 4

4\. _(january through april, walpurgisnacht, and apec)_

I wish I could say something of note happened between January and April, but nothing did. No emails, no contacts, nothing. I got one email from Russia in March and became entirely too excited than is necessary to describe before I realised it was about something completely unrelated to anything we've ever talked about, and he'd sent it to everyone.

That didn't stop me from going through it with a fine-tooth comb for anything that looked code-like.

Yes, it was a slow day that day, but the real key issue is, I have no shame.

(For what it's worth I did find two messages. One said simply "sorry", at which point I told myself, fuck it and took the rest of the day off to try and not feel so heartbroken. The one I found later with Kuma-whatsit said "I'm OK" and made me stupidly happy. Who knew Kuma-thing was so darn good at cryptic crossword clues?)

As a result, time went so slowly it was driving me insane. I was going back and forth every week to New York to see Alfred simply because it was better than to be alone and checking my phone for emails every two minutes. Alfred's vivacious personality really helps me not-think about things, and on the plus side, US-Canada relations are now even closer than they have been in the past five years.

This brings us to APEC.

The Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation summit is being held in Indonesia this year, which means amazing food, and hilarious clothing. Well, not hilarious in and of itself, but they always have the bosses dress up in some sort of outfit traditional of the host country in question for a photo-op. And Colin looks terrible in most things, so I was excited to see how ridiculous he would look like in _teluk beskap_.

But let's not drag things out unnecessarily. There is one and only one reason I am interested in the summit this year. I don't know how it could have possibly been easier: get to APEC, figure out there how to get Russia alone, talk to said Russia about problems, brainstorm solutions to fix said problems, implement said solutions.

Unfortunately it appears the best laid plans do not come to form.

\--

**From: clearlyawesome@gmail.com**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: April 28, 9:02 AM**  
 **Subject: AWESOME ideas**

HEY so, I have this brilliant idea. It involves fun and pranks and some things I can't describe because apparently these emails stay on your government server and also also also!

A huge party around a giant bonfire like the pagans we are.

Cuuuurious?

(that was not exactly a question btw. I know you are)

 

Sent from my Awesome iPhone

\--

_Never give out your password or credit card number in an instant message conversation._  
\-----  
Matthew says (9:03 AM): Hey

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:03 AM): hey! that was fast

Matthew says (9:04 AM): yeah ... slow work day. Don't tell my boss. So anyway what's this brilliant idea of yours? Is this going to be like Hallowe'en four years ago?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:04 AM): oh man, NO

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:04 AM): it will be WAY BETTER

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:05 AM): Walpurgisnacht is more awesome in every way than Halloween

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:05 AM): get ready to be a heathen

Matthew says (9:05 AM): Walpurgis what?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:05 AM): I KNEW IT

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:05 AM): that seals it

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:05 AM): you HAVE to come

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:05 AM): because I MUST INTRODUCE YOU to the awesome that is Walpurgisnacht

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:05 AM): brb in 5 min

Matthew says (9:06 AM): Wait

Matthew says (9:09 AM): Okay, so I just googled this nonsense.... isn't it in like two days?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:14 AM): Check your inbox

Matthew says (9:14 AM): oh god what did you do

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:14 AM): check it check it check it

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:15 AM): ITS AWESOME I KNOW RIGHT

Matthew says (9:15 AM): Gilbert I can buy my own stuff!

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:15 AM): Yes but this way you can't decline the invite!

Matthew says (9:15 AM): You did not have to do this, I can buy my own tickets. At least let me reimburse you?

Matthew says (9:16 AM): whoa holy - did you spend your money on this?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:16 AM): of course I didn;t

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:16 AM): Bank of West, baby :D

Matthew says (9:17 AM): GILBERT WHAT THE

Matthew says (9:17 AM): THIS IS A FIRST-CLASS TICKET

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:17 AM): yeah, that was all that was left at this date

Matthew says (9:17 AM): how long have you known about this? I assume it's something that happens every year?

Matthew says (9:18 AM): and knowing you you have been probably planning it for awhile so what the hell, short notice much? Didn't you consider that I might not be available?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:18 AM): well okay, to be honest, I don't always do stuff for Walpurgisnacht

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:18 AM): it's a big thing only if you make it a big thing

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:18 AM): there are parties at bars, I go there instead

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:18 AM): and someone buys a round of drinks, or three

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:18 AM): and then someone else comes in and announces bonfire over here so then we all move

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:18 AM): I really think all pub crawls should end like that

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:19 AM): the difference is, this year Ludwig was selected as the EU rep for APEC

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:19 AM): because he's responsible or w/e

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:19 AM): and so he's leaving a day early to prepare a bunch of stuff because as he says he needs to do a loto f research

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:19 AM): which means the house is empty

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:19 AM): which means AWESOME PARTY TIME

Matthew says (9:20 AM): oh my god

Matthew says (9:20 AM): you are going to break everything

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:20 AM): oh yes

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:20 AM): of course!

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:21 AM): he JUST told me he was leaving this morning, and physically left about an hour ago, and so I thought, WELL THEN. Time to BE AWESOME.

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:21 AM): anyway that's why the plans are so late. and I am sorry about that

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:22 AM): but you're still going to come, right?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:22 AM): by the way I only phrased that as a question out of respect.

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:22 AM): because you are coming

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:22 AM): that isn't optional

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:24 AM): stop typing and then deleting it!

Matthew says (9:25 AM): alright, well ... I hate to put a wrench in your plans

Matthew says (9:25 AM): but I also am kind of expected to go to APEC

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:25 AM): WHAT

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:26 AM): why the ever loving crap would you want to do that?

Matthew says (9:26 AM): oh I dunno, something about being a country whose coastline borders the Pacific?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:26 AM): what does that have to do with anything

Matthew says (9:26 AM): THE P IN APEC STANDS FOR PACIFIC

Matthew says (9:26 AM): anyway Gil I'd love to, but I really can't

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:27 AM): ohhh no

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:27 AM): no you really CAN

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:27 AM): in fact you will

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:27 AM): because I will find a way

Matthew says (9:27 AM): gil I'm really sorry

Matthew says (9:28 AM): look don't do this

Matthew says (9:30 AM): I don't even know what you're doing right now and I'm concerned

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:32 AM): AHA

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:32 AM): I AM THE AWESOMEST

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:32 AM): ok so

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:33 AM): according to my little brother's schedule, which I pilfered, conference is the 2nd-3rd

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:33 AM): it takes maybe a day to fly out to down under

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:33 AM): so if you leave very early the 1st you should be in by 4 am the 2nd or something in java

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:33 AM): I am sorry in advance for the massive hangover you will have

Matthew says (9:33 AM): Gil that's really

Matthew says (9:34 AM): jesus

Matthew says (9:34 AM): okay listen, I'm really flattered

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:34 AM): yeah you better be, nobody else will be there

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:34 AM): just you and me and Berlin at our feet, baby face

Matthew says (9:35 AM): wait just me? but you get on with America pretty well - you guys were all chummy at Thanksgiving

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:35 AM): no offense but I really only did that for you

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:35 AM): I mean he's nice and all and I guess I like him but you're the one who's my friend

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:35 AM): and frankly I think you're the better norht american brother any day

Matthew says (9:35 AM): aw, Gil...

Matthew says (9:35 AM): don't

Matthew says (9:35 AM): don't do this to me

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:35 AM): and on a less sappy note if you do not come for Walpurgisnacht I am not afraid to hold this over you forever

Matthew says (9:35 AM): oh that's just great

Matthew says (9:35 AM): thank you

Matthew says (9:35 AM): so much

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:36 AM): I will pretend that's not sarcasm

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:36 AM): BECAUSE YOU'RE WELCOME

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:36 AM): also I don't think anybody else would come over and party so late in the game

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:36 AM): also also, that ticket's non refundable

Matthew (9:36 AM): you're shitting me

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:36 AM): so you'd better come

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:36 AM): I am not kidding

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:36 AM): you HAVE to come mattie

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): do not make me belarus you into this

Matthew says (9:37 AM): dare I ask what that means?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): COME TO WALPURGISNACHT

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): COME TO WALPURGISNACHT

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): COME TO WALPURGISNACHT

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): COME TO WALPURGISNACHT

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): COME TO WALPURGISNACHT

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): I swear I will do this all day

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): COME TO WALPURGISNACHT

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): COME TO WALPURGISNACHT

Matthew says (9:37 AM): OKAY

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): COME TO WALPURGISNACHT

Matthew says (9:37 AM): fuck

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): YAY!

Matthew says (9:37 AM): fine

Matthew says (9:37 AM): I'll be there

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:37 AM): :D :D :D :D

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:38 AM): you cant possibly know how happy this makes me

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:38 AM): no seriously it's a bit sad

Matthew says (9:38 AM): I hate you so much sometimes

Matthew says (9:38 AM): pick me up from the airport at whenever the hell my flight gets in

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:38 AM): then I will see you at nine tomorrow morning! :D :D

Matthew says (9:38 AM): wait what?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:38 AM): check the ticket?

Matthew says (9:38 AM): I did but - is that 9am Berlin time?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:38 AM): yes

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:39 AM): lufthansa's website defaults to local time for me

Matthew says (9:39 AM): how long is the flight??!

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:39 AM): generally about 10 hours?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:39 AM): I think yours is a little longer due to interchanges - perhaps 14h

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:39 AM): why?

Matthew says (9:39 AM): GILBERT FUCK

Matthew says (9:39 AM): GODDAMMIT FUCK

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:39 AM): ok, calm down, stop swearing so much

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:39 AM): I think the internet makes you fifteen times as vulgar, you're never like this irl

Matthew says (9:40 AM): by that estimate I should be at the airport IN 20 MIN

Matthew says (9:40 AM): with everything prepared for APEC!

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:40 AM): HAHAHAHA

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:40 AM): oh

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:40 AM): well crap!

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:40 AM): perhaps you better hurry!

Matthew says (9:40 AM): IT IS NINE AM DO YOU KNOW WHAT RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC IS LIKE TO OTTAWA SOUTH

Matthew says (9:41 AM): I AM GOING TO KILL YOU SO HARD

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:41 AM): :D

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:41 AM): I love you too, Matt

Matthew says (9:41 AM): maple

Matthew says (9:41 AM): you'd better take me shopping when I get there

Matthew says (9:41 AM): and what the fuck do you expect me to do with kuma!?

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:41 AM): idk, bring him if you want

Matthew says (9:41 AM): yes

Matthew says (9:41 AM): that's it exactly

Matthew says (9:41 AM): bring a POLAR BEAR onto an INTERNATIONAL FLIGHT which GOES THROUGH THE STATES

Matthew says (9:41 AM): what the fuck is wrong with you

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:42 AM): okay well w/e, do what you did with him for Christmas when you went to England's

Matthew says (9:42 AM): I can't just leave him outside this time of year! Do you have any idea what Ottawa's like right now? It is NOT polar bear weather!

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:42 AM): you're a bright boy, you'll figure something out

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:42 AM): do you have anyone you can ask to house-sit? what were you gonna do with him for apec?

Matthew says (9:42 AM): he was going to come with me for APEC!

Matthew says (9:42 AM): ugh, gilbert!

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:43 AM): chillllll don't panic

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:43 AM): we'll figure something out

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:43 AM): don't you have some kinda representative assistant?

Matthew says (9:55 AM): okay fine. My assistant says she can take him. I will see you in soon

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:55 AM): :D! eee awesome

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:55 AM): I am like a giddy child!

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:55 AM): like it's the eleventh century again!

Gil | SO FREAKIN EXCITED says (9:55 AM): but with much less christianity!

Matthew says (9:55 AM): I swear to god the things I do for you

\--

And this is how I find myself in Berlin-Tegel coming down the escalator at arrivals, after having:

1, bribed Lisa to take Kuma for a few days, then bribed her again to somehow convince Colin without any repercussions to yours truly that I'd be out of town for a day or two and that I'd see him in Indonesia, even though we were supposed to fly out together;  
2, fought mad amounts of traffic to the Ottawa international airport;  
3, spent far too much on four days' worth of airport parking;  
4, waited in Chicago for my stopover for three hours (there was a lot of Minesweeper involved);  
5, eaten nothing but overpriced airport food for a day; and  
6, managed to pinch a nerve in my neck during one of the worst night's sleep I've had in a very long time.

But as I come down the escalator, on the 29th, 9 am Berlin time, Gil is waiting on the other side, leaning against a pillar near the baggage retrieval whirling his car keys around his fingers. When he looks up and spots me he actually begins bouncing around on the balls of his feet in excitement, and he beams this wide frantic smile that I don't think I've ever seen his face make before. Then he crushes my ribs and whirls me around with all the exuberance of a child and a stuffed toy.

_Worth it._

Gil is a mad rush of energy and I have to tell him to slow down three times before he actually listens to me and slows down. Seconds later he's back to frenetic chatter, which in his accent doesn't even sound entirely English (and might not be, upon reflection). His car - which I've never seen him drive, since we only ever meet up in other countries and once or twice in Canada - is a beat-up old thing that looks like a military armoured vehicle and was probably made ten years ago. It's not what I expected from him; and yet, at the same time, it's exactly what I expected from him.

"Allow me to introduce you to mein kleiner Wolf!" he says vibrantly, stroking the hood like a doting father. "Well, weiblicher Wolf. Meine Fähe. Maybe. I don't know. Anyway, this is Anneliese. She's seven this spring. Looks good for her age, doesn't she?"

"A Jeep?"

"A Geländewagen," he corrects, with no small measure of insult, and that's right, I remember our forces using these in Afghanistan, "so, a _Benz_ , but you're new here so she understands. Didja bring any luggage with you besides the carry-on case?"

I give him a Look.

"Oh, right. Well, we'll go shopping - don't worry," he says as he holds open the passenger car door for me, which I will admit, is a kind gesture. And the two large coffees in the cupholders certainly help.

I'm not really all that mad at Gil by this point. Sure, it was a dumb move to plan this all so very last-minute, but having thought about it for a while - a nineteen-hour-flight-long while - I'll concede there wasn't much Gil could do about the timing either, not if Germany himself up and left a day ago on such short notice. And in the interim, Gil has gone out of his way to ensure that I can make it - he didn't plan for APEC to be held around this time - so he is trying and I shouldn't be so scowly. (He even manages to wait until my coffee is half done before he starts doing tricks on the road that he shouldn't and driving a little more dangerously. That is a level of considerate I didn't know Gilbert possessed.)

Besides, if my gut instinct is correct, this means something to him. Something big. And I can count on my fingers the number of things that mean something to Gilbert Beilschmidt, who has - since the 12th century, they say - treated almost everything with an inane and often inappropriate amount of levity.

"Here," Gil says, tossing me a little notepad as he starts up the car, "make a list of all the things you'll need. The rest of the day's gonna be shopping madness."

"The entire rest of the day?" He'd better be willing to fund that kind of interest on my part in caffeine.

"We need to sleep early," he says, winking salaciously, which means he has at least one trick up his sleeve left.

I shelve it for now and mark down my needs on the paper, below what he's already got listed for his own shopping plans. Gilbert's contribution says _Bier, Bier, Bier, Bier, Wein - Riesling?, mehr Bier, Ernst über Maibowle anrufen, Essen??, Holz aus der Brocken_ with the last encircled several times.

That... is a lot of beer.

We're against the flow of traffic, so it doesn't take us long to get from the airport back to Gilbert (and Germany's) house in the south section of Berlin. It's an old post-and-beam style country house that epitomises so aptly the image I get when I think of Germany that I feel like a trespasser when I walk in. Everything is very neat and very organised and very German efficiency, but Gilbert tells me to ignore it and make myself at home, even though his quarters are technically the basement and not the rest of the house.

He gives me the grand tour once he realises that the last time I was over at his place it was just after the fall of the Union. The brothers have apparently moved five times since then. "My brother's never happy for long," Gil explains, "there's always a better place. I think we shall stay a few more years and then pack and move again. But this is better than the last place we had. Here, there's room for the dogs."

That's right, the dogs. Germany has two German shepherds and a field spaniel these days; the spaniel is Gabi, who is getting on in years and gives me a doleful look as I pat her on the head. The two shepherds, Lola and Purzel, are much younger - about 3 and 5 - and though Purzel's the older one they both act like puppies. Giant oversized puppies.

The kitchen's large windows look out onto a wide expanse of forest that serves as the backyard. According to Gil there's a ravine in there, tons of clearings, and a small brook that may or may not feed into something that eventually becomes the Elbe. (Gil says he followed it once to see where it wound up but he also says he was a little drunk that night.)

As Gil makes himself some toast, there's something else I don't expect in the kitchen, either. "Hey, your bird's still alive," I say brightly, pointing to the little yellow ball of feathers, which is perched on a dowel in a cage hung by the window. I haven't seen the creature since the last time I was here over twenty years ago. Unlike Kuma-thing, Gil could probably take him to all the meetings he tags along with Germany to, but doesn't.

Gil scoffs. "'Course he is, he won't die if I don't." He stuffs some toast into his mouth and mutters, " _Lustiger Vögelchen!_ He certainly eats a lot."

"You're one to talk, eh? But what's he doing in a cage?"

"Mattie, that's where birds live."

Oh really. "Didn't you swear up and down once that you'd never put him behind bars in a jail?"

"Ah, but look closely," Gil says with a knowing smirk, so I inspect the cage. Sure enough, the entire construction of a closed cage is a very clever optical illusion. Every second bar is missing, but from most vantage points the remaining bars 'fill in' the gaps to make it look complete. Furthermore, there's just two semicircles further up the length of the 'cage' that act as different floors - and seem to serve to catch droppings - but no actual bottom. "You see? He's free to fly wherever he wants, whenever he wants."

"Then why doesn't he?"

Gil shrugs and returns to his toast. "Perhaps he prefers it this way," he says quietly, finishing his food. Then he grins. "C'mon, I know a great place for work clothes."

\--

I've never noticed how excruciatingly expensive Gil's tastes are. I'm not that observant. I figure, if people are clothed that's really enough, isn't it? And he wears clothing that fits properly and looks nice, so I never stopped to think about how much it cost.

But he's brought me to, like, the South Berlin equivalent of Manhattan in terms of shopping on the grounds that you spend less time in a more expensive store, and that of course leaves more time for booze-shopping. "Oooh, this is nice," he says, plucking a shirt the colour of claret from the racks and laying it over my arms, along with the other fifteen articles he's already selected.

"You are not listening to me," I grunt out behind him, following him through the store. "I don't need nine shirts and seven pairs of pants! I'm only here for two days."

" _Ja_ , but the last time you went shopping must've been ages ago. I haven't seen you in anything new in five years. So we're making up for lost time - hey, waistcoats! Want one of those? You'll look like a dandy! You must be, hm, 36 around the chest, I expect?" he asks distractedly, rifling through something that would probably make me look like England.

"I don't want to look like a dandy!" But I'll admit it would be nice to be taken seriously for once, as Gilbert grins, ignores me, and adds a dark blue waistcoat - honestly, a _waistcoat_ \- to the growing pile in my arms. The pile is now officially heavier than Kuma-creature.

As I try on the clothes I have to admit Gil has a point when it comes to better quality stores. I never go shopping because it's a nightmare to find something in your size when you're constantly between sizes, and I have better things to do with my time than to spend three hours shopping when nothing ever really fits. But this is dangerously efficient, because everything I try on fits surprisingly well.

Though the waistcoat looks a little bit foolish.

"Are you sure this is the way it's supposed to look?" I ask Gil, who's waiting impatiently outside the changeroom.

His foot stops tapping instantly, and he lets out a low whistle as he looks me over, evidently appreciative from the flush in his cheeks. " _Oh_. Ah, Mattie..."

"Um. What?" I ask, tugging on the edges of the waistcoat selfconsciously and trying not to disappear out of embarrassment. You'd think someone as invisible as I am would enjoy being looked at like this, but after getting used to being invisible any sudden attention is really hard to take.

"Yeah, no, that - that looks fine, trust me. Better than fine. That looks. Great. It's great. Will you get it?"

"Oh gosh." The moment of truth. "I don't know, eh, that depends. Want to find the tag for me? I think I can swing it if it's on the low end of three figures."

Gil laughs at me. "I won't break the news to you. But you're getting it anyway, this thing is awesome. That and those pants, and that shirt. D'you need a sweater? It will be cold out there, the weather changes rapidly this time of year."

"Gilbert, I come from a place where October temperatures span thirty degrees. I'll be okay."

When all is said and done at the cash, we've managed to knock off almost everything on my list in one store - I'll need cufflinks and a tie, but Gil tells me I can borrow some of his. As to the final amount, well ... if I keep my food per diem very low, and carefully mooch everything off Gil, I can probably work the travel expense claim forms so that I can cover the cost of the two shirts under incidentals.

Next is the beer, and now I'm glad that Gilbert chose an armoured vehicle instead of a zippy sports car, because otherwise, there would be no other way he could fit all that he plans on buying. I suddenly don't feel quite so bad about the clothes because Gil pays for the beer and wine with his representative's credit card.

There is one more alcoholic drink on the menu that he has yet to buy - this Maibowle stuff. "It's not something you can buy in stores," he says, when I ask about it, "it's a special concoction. You take _Waldmeister_ \- I forget what that is in English, some herb, anyway - smush it in sparkling wine, add some strawberries and a little sugar. And whatever you like. My friend Ernst is in charge of that, as a birthday present to the awesome me!"

"Gilbert, your birthday is in January."

"Ernst doesn't know that. Don't tell him."

\--

By the time we're done shopping and back at Gil's place - and have taken the dogs out for a walk like Gil promised his brother - it's four in the afternoon and I'm starving. "Have anything planned for dinner?"

Gil's dialing his cellphone - possibly his friend - but he ends the call when I open the fridge. "My plans were you making me pancakes," he says brightly.

"You want pancakes. For dinner?" I'm almost hungry enough not to question it. "You know, there's a lot of things I can make involving maple syrup that don't involve pancakes. Maple glazed salmon, you can use it to braise apple and pork, there's a nifty sweet-sour sauce I have for vegetables and corned beef."

Gil looks oddly perplexed. "Who said anything about syrup?"

"That stuff I export to you in bulk? The stuff you said to keep away from your brother because it was, and I quote, 'all yours'? Pancakes are basically just a conduit for the sweet stuff, anyway."

"No, on the contrary! Your pancakes are awesome. Besides, I don't have any more syrup."

"What- it's all gone? Gil, I just sent you two tons last month!"

"And I am a very hungry boy with no shame. Well, as you insist. If you can make the pancakes, I'll go to the store." But Gil doesn't really leave me time for an answer before he's out the door. Seconds later I hear the big car start up and drive off.

I hope it's not illegal on German roads to talk on the phone and drive at the same time. But then the bird chirps and that sounds vaguely like 'pancakes', to which my stomach agrees loudly and somewhat violently, so I apply myself diligently to that task.

The bottle Gil brings back has the characteristic shape - same fluted neck, same tiny glass circle handle - but the label is German. "At my insistence," he explains. "And I hope you know the lengths I went to for it. It's only sold in health food stores this side of Berlin."

"You're the one who told me not to export to him," I reply, shrugging. "Otherwise, I'm sure it's be everywhere. So what did Ernst say?"

"Maibowle's ready," Gil confirms, sitting down where I've set the table and helping himself to half the stack. "I dropped by his house to put some beer in his fridge. And now we can buy more for tomorrow!" Let that be a mental image as to how much beer Gil buys for a party.

I crack open the bottle he's bought and douse the pancakes with a healthy amount. "I've been meaning to ask you."

Gil pours - no joke - the entire remainder of the bottle on his stack. "Hmm?"

"Is this going to be some kind of ... ritual?" I sat in on England doing one or two of those. It wasn't much fun. But there was also a lot less beer.

Gilbert takes an overly large bite of pancake positively dripping in syrup, and holds up a hand in an 'I'm chewing' sign. Probably on purpose to stall for time. Oh, this is a ritual alright. "Not ... exactly," he says slowly.

"So... definitely yes."

"Well. It's not. Hm. It's not a ritual, like England-style ritual." Gil takes another obscenely giant bite to stall. That's okay, I'm patient, and an awkward silence on my end will make him want to fill it.

Which he does. "Sometime about this time is the old pagan spring festival. For the Saxon tribes. I missed that all of that - you remember, I didn't start off Prussian... in fact, I took them over. The Prussians were Baltic. And in those days, pagan."

"You, on the other hand, began as a Teutonic Knight, right?"

" _Das stimmt_. We were Catholics. Well, it was a pretty quick Crusade by Crusading standards, but a slower cultural takeover, and the Prussians weren't assimilated until a lot later. I could still speak Old Prussian well past the Reformation."

"You spoke their language?"

"Of course I did," says Gilbert, honestly surprised. "Why not? It made things easier. They liked me more if I did."

I shrug. "I, uh... I just -" I can't figure out how to politely say that I thought for sure The Awesome Prussia would never stoop so low as learning the language of the colonised. "Never mind."

"Where was I... ah! So people still felt connected to their old gods while reconciling the new relationship with mine. You know. The superstitions, the things you _just do_ even if you've forgotten why, but you've done them for so long. The old ways. That went last. That, and language. For some things, the Teutonics and Prussians came to agreement. Ah. What few Prussians remained, that is. I, uh... we weren't too kind to the rest. Times were different, you must understand."

"No, no I do." I understand colonialisation. If nobody holds it against my character, I don't hold it against Gil's.

"Anyway fast forward a few more years. 1945 rolls around, and. Well. You know the way it ends," Gil finishes. "I don't think I have to worry about fading away and leaving for another few years. But I do have to worry."

This shocks me a bit. Then again, what England's told me about the ends of nations has been slim to nil - both he and France just tell me 'not to worry one's pretty little head about it', which is no help at all. Gil's the one from whom I've learned the most of what I have, and that's still not much to go on. "Then you will die?"

"Everybody dies in the end. Even us. It's better for my brother if one day, no one considers themselves _East_ German or _West_ German, just regular German. That's the day I'll leave." At my shock, he shrugs and says, "Could be worse, could be a failed state."

"But you can't just sit down and take it like that! Like, like ... Hesse, or what about -"

"I remember a guy once whose name I had to fight for the right to use to his face," Gil interrupts. "I pestered, and pestered, I was such a dick to him because I thought I had a right to know it. Until he relented, finally, something like five hundred years after we first met. I deserved it. When we met we beat the hell out of each other. You would not believe the things we did - he roasted me alive in my armour like a chestnut, I skewered him in the neck with my sword and led him around like a dog on a leash. I won in the end. And it was my first real victory, so, I rubbed it in his face. Yeah, we didn't get along for years afterwards. His name was Kleckis. He didn't have a last name - we didn't really do last names back then - but he said he came from the Alna, so Kleckis Alnos he was."

Gilbert is eating more slowly now, but I know he's still physically hungry. I hope I'm not putting him off his food with this - I should really proceed carefully. This is already a topic more serious than any I've ever spoken to Gilbert about - I opened myself a real can of worms, it seems - and while I'm flattered that he's telling me something so private, that he doesn't mind my nosiness too much, I also don't want to hurt him. He's probably my best friend.

I'm amazed at how much I don't know about him.

"What was he like?"

"Quiet. Funny, once you got to know him, and sharp as an arrow! But very quiet. That's probably another reason we didn't get along. But once we did, we - we really did." Gil shoves another pancake into his mouth, and blushes.

I want to ask how he died, but I don't dare. The smarter part of me knows that's a step too far, and that I should lighten the mood instead. "That's some pretty poetic stuff. Celebrating your deathday with a baptism by fire."

"Something like that. It's not just my death I'm celebrating, it's his too. Like I said, combining the two helps it go down better. To honour him, we use something pagan. To honour me, we use _Germanic_ rituals. And he never shared much of his old mythology with me - he kept that to himself - so I went with what was most familiar. Every year a nod to the coming harvest season, every year I try to get myself drunk enough to hallucinate Kleckis himself. _Jeder durfte nach seiner Fasson_."

"Which means?"

"Everybody's saved, in his own way. First Kleckis, and someday me too." He grins. "Also, beer! Which is as good a reason as any to do anything."

Which I think is Gil-speak for 'Okay, a little less serious now. This is creeping me out.'

\--

We go to bed early, which Gil says is because we need to get up early, so I take a shower at seven instead of ten and hit the sack at eight instead of midnight. By early, I expect Gil means something like 8ish in the morning.

Imagine my surprise when 4am rolls around and Gilbert pokes me awake.

"Mwuhh," I eloquently say, and he cackles.

"I shall take that as Matthew for 'good morning'," he says, and places a mug down on the nightstand, next to my glasses.

Coffee first, then glasses, I think, blearily reaching for the mug. I sip gratefully - and nearly spit it out. "Geez, Gil, the hell is this, tar?"

"Close!" he chimes in, far, far too upbeat for four in the morning. "Five shots of espresso in one mug. And there's another two of those waiting for us in Anneliese. Now drink up! We must be on the road in ten minutes. I already let you sleep too long."

"Where're we going?"

Gil taps the side of his nose. "It's a _seee-krit_ ," he says, with a tone of voice somewhere between giddy and evil, which makes me wonder how many of these concoctions Gil has already had.

I wonder whether Gil has shower gel with caffeine in it too. It certainly smells invigorating. At any rate, it manages to wake me up enough that I can make it to the car, where I nurse my next set of espressos and try not to crash completely. "So are you going to explain to me where the hell it is we're going at some point today?"

"Now that you're in the car and we're on the highway, and you can't conceivably roll out and abandon ship, yes." That doesn't sound ominous at all. "Walpurgisnacht is usually a bonfire. So, we need to head over to the Brocken mountain to pick up some wood."

"We need special mountain wood."

"Special mountain wood from the Brocken mountain."

I sigh. "Gil, if you're trying to make this sound not like a ritual, you are failing miserably." Rule one of rituals, according to England: the place you get your materials from is somehow important. As though the composition of wood from a forest in Berlin, behind Gil's home, where he can loot branches all he wants, is somehow different from the composition of the very same trees growing on a mountain.

"It's an act of symbolism more than anything else," Gil says. "Obviously, not all of the wood we burn will be from here. No way to fit it all in Anneliese!" This is a serious bonfire. I make a mental note to remind Gil to have extinguishers or at the very outside buckets of water easily available. "But it's not a ritual. Aside from the personal touch, I won't be reciting incantations or anything."

"Then why does it have to be special mountain wood?"

"Walpurgisnacht in literature took place on the Brocken. It's a creepy looking mountain when the shadows and fog strike it right. Makes it look as though devils are coming up the side, joining at the plateaus, dancing around their fires. Where else should the evil one hold his grand ball but the land of the Teufelskanzel and the Hexenaltar? It's always played a role in legends with witches and demons," Gil finishes, with a sparkle in his eyes.

I suppose that makes sense, in a ... strange, twisted, warped way. "Alright, I'll buy that. Next question, why so early? You wanted to beat the rush or something?"

"More that it's technically illegal."

I nearly spit out the coffee. Bad idea. Coffee is a precious, precious commodity at 4 am. "I shouldn't be surprised, but somehow, I am," I tell him.

Gilbert explains. "I'd've had our entire celebration there, but again - technically illegal. Now it's a tourist attraction, especially after Goethe. And mostly a national park. So the reason we're going so soon is so that we can get there before they open it for the morning. We don't need much, just one or two blocks, and maybe a long staff-like thing. The rest'll be wood from the backyard. I just -" he becomes quiet. "I just thought it'd be a nice gesture. This year is special."

"Because it's an anniversary or something?"

"Because _you're_ here. Because it already feels different. Because this time I can really go nuts with my brother gone. I don't mean burn-down-the-forest nuts," Gil covers quickly, "But it's difficult when your little brother's around to let loose. And he doesn't understand why I need to do this, what he meant to me, and I don't want to explain it, it's embarrassing -"

"It's okay," I tell him, "I understand." And with Alfred as my brother, I certainly do. Mostly because he lets loose enough for the both of us.

Gil smiles, one of his rarer smiles - pleasant and genuine, not mocking. "Thanks, Mattie," he says. "This means a lot to me."

"Anytime," I tell him. "Just, y'know, forward notice first, eh?" to which he cackles.

\--

I nap a bit between our drive - car rides always put me to sleep, and there's no traffic on the highway so it's just the hum of asphalt under tire for three hours. Multiple shots of espresso or not, I can't help it. Gil shakes me up. "We there yet?" I ask him.

"Almost," he replies. "We're in Sachsen-Anhalt. This is Schierke here."

The town is pretty small, and Gil slows his speed from 200 km/h to a more respectable 60. A lot of post-and-beam houses, old churches, little signposts hanging above shop windows done in wood with gilt-edging. The sun is just rising now - it's about a quarter to seven, Gil must've made good time. It looks like the kind of place you'd retire in. "You weren't kidding about tourist town," I tell him.

"We won't be long," he says, "so enjoy it while you can." Sure enough, ten minutes later he turns off the main roads to a small but paved two-lane road that leads around the mountain. It twists and turns and for awhile I'm not certain we're actually moving forward up the mountainside, given how much time we've spent going in various directions, but eventually Gil decides it's enough and pulls over onto the shoulder. He peers out the window and tuts. "Cameras. Should've known."

"What do we do?"

"We proceed to Plan B!" he says. He lifts his hips up to pull out a computer printout from his back pocket. He unfolds the paper to reveal a map of the Brocken trail, most of which is in German. "Here's where we came in," he points out, tracing the line, "and here's the trail you walk up when you do the Brocken walk. Many will be doing that today, since today's the 30th. Here's where we are now." He points to a part on the road leading up the mountainside. "This road is mostly used by the park guards, and the park opens at 8 so they'll be along shortly. We must be fast."

"So what's the plan?"

"The plan!" Gil's eyes practically gleam. "Okay, you see that post there?" He points out what looks like a tall wooden stump nearby the car on the other side of the road. Given the fact that it's strung up and attached to others very like it at regular intervals as far back and forward on the road that I can see, it's probably an electric transmission line. This one has what looks like a large metal barrel attached to it - that's a transformer.

"I see it," I tell him.

"Good. Now first things first, I need to test a theory. You know that ... little thing you do, your little trick?"

I heave a heavy sigh, hoping my sleep and coffee breath near Gil's face sufficiently summarises how much I don't like the sound of this. "What am I stealing," I ask.

At this point, I've completely given up on being self-righteous about helping Gil out with his banditry. If I get caught, I can always scream diplomatic immunity. And this is not something about which I really know anything. It's not like _I've_ ever been formally disbanded as a nation and had to figure out a way to cope with my strange pseudo-existence thereafter.

So I don't care about the stealing part.

It's the fact that Gil wants me to do it _this way_ that bugs me.

"You're not stealing anything. Humour me, okay? _Ja?_ "

"Listen, I don't even know to do ... what the hell ever it is that I do, eh, it just - happens, okay? I don't exactly control it." It would be amazing if I could, believe me.

Gil twists to face me, propping his head up on a hand, the elbow poking into the headrest of his seat. "Alright, well - what sort of thing seems to spark it?"

I shrug. "I've, uh ... never really paid much attention to it, to be honest. I guess - anytime I feel ignored. Anytime not enough attention is being paid to me. O-or too much. Anytime I've done something really dumb or embarrassing."

Gil gives me an intense stare and leans in, slowly. "Stop it," I tell him, jokingly, but he doesn't. "Okay seriously Gil, quit it -"

"Hah!" he points a finger in my face. "There it is! You, you - shimmered around the edges a little. Once more! See if you can figure out exactly what makes you react like that. See if you can duplicate it."

Before I can comment that these few days in Berlin were supposed to be about Gil and not me and could we please stop focussing on me and my problems I'd rather just lick my wounds in peace and quiet and alone, Gil's already shoved his face into my personal space with a weird look that rivals Sweden's. I can tell nothing's happening - no prickle in my skin. "Gil, geez, I really don't wanna do this."

"Oh, because pretending that the problem just isn't there will make it go away, right?"

That's not what I meant! "There isn't a problem, Gil."

Gil just glares. "There _is_ , and you know it."

He isn't seeing reason. "Didn't you make me promise you I'd never do it to you?"

"I did," he argues, "but if you can't control it, what good is such a promise?"

"Gilbert!" I scold - I'm actually getting so angry I can feel shivers down my spine - "I _don't want to do it!_ Just leave me alone!" Why can't he just _leave me alone_ -

"There!" he shoots back. "That right there. Hold that, hold that right now. You're at like 50% right now. I can - wow, this is so creepy, I can see the other side of the car. _Through you_."

I'm glaring so hard I envision laser beams composed of daggers streaming from my eyes to peck at his flesh. I'm so angry I could scream. He knows I don't like ... my _condition_. I'd prevent it if I could!

"Mattie," he says, trying to be comforting. "I just want to help." When I don't reply, he moistens his mouth with his tongue and tries a different tactic. "If you start learning to use it on purpose, that's a step towards being able to turn it on and off at will, instead of at random."

I suppose I can't fault his logic, but I don't like that he wants to take advantage of my ugly little habit in order to pilfer wood from another nation's UNESCO site for a totally-not-a-ritual ritual.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Okay," I tell him.

"Alright, then we begin again. Deep breath ... and go."

Be invisible, I think. What it is that makes me invisible. The spotlight, having too much attention, people watching me and I've gone and screwed up, or maybe even I've done the right thing, just like in 1945 and 1918, I'd helped out so much but there was everybody around and I didn't know how to handle this kind of scrutiny, I still don't, let me fade away, leave me alone and I'll just -

"Mattie. Shit. Mattie, you're _gone_ ," Gil tells me, in an awed hush.

And I'll just disappear.

\--

It takes a few minutes' practice before I really have a solid (get it? _get it??_ I'm hilarious.) grip on it, but once I do, Gil reveals the rest of his plan.

There's a camera near the fence, but it plugs directly into the transformer. So I'm supposed to get to the transformer, figure out how to unplug the camera without electrocuting myself, and then wave him over once it's all said and done and I'm ideally not fried maple. All of this while while concentrating my existence away.

Easy it's not, something I've done before it's not, but I gather my wits about me - because we came all this way, we can't have nothing to show for it (and Gil looks so hopeful about it, I can't crush him) - and I leave the car.

The little bit of practice helps, and it only takes me a second or two to get the prickle feeling on my skin again. It's like goosebumps, and at some point there's a feeling of pulling-in from my extremities to my torso, like I'm curling up into a little ball but I haven't actually moved. At that point I'm about halfway there and the rest of it is just keeping that feeling until I can see through myself.

Without bothering to look both ways I begin walking across the street. There's nobody around - no park guards or other cars. On the other side, there is a small chain-link fence that I can climb, but it's a funny feeling trying to manipulate my body when it's transparent. I think the point of it is at some level a defence mechanism - the curling into a ball makes my limbs feel cold and sleepy, as though I've woken up after having fallen asleep outside.

Moving around like this shakes off a lassitude. My outline becomes nearly visible -

_HOOONNNK_

Gil grins from the car.

It scares the living daylights out of me and I nearly slip off the fence.

But it works. The prickle is back in full force and I can't see my own hands in front of me, groping for purchase.

I drop down on the other side of the chain-link and make my way over to the transformer. There's a faint humming sound that grows louder as I approach. This must be the power itself. It takes hard work to keep my focus.

It's a lot easier than I'd anticipated it might be, when I get close enough to judge. It's an extension cord plugged into an outlet on the pole, like a ski-hill lift. That's pretty simple to disarm, all I have to do is unplug the cord. No, the problem is that the outlet is about 8 feet in the air, and when I stand on tip-toes with my arms outstretched I hardly graze it.

But I'm in a forest, of course there's things I can use for that. There's a nearby sapling with long thin young branches, so I snap one off, then whack the fat end on the outlet until the humming stops. The plug hangs loose and useless against the pole.

It takes a minute for me to shake off the cloak. Finally, after my hands have returned to normal and I can see them, I look back at Gil in the car and give him the thumbs up.

It only takes a second for him to scale the fence and vault easily over the other side. Troublemaker. He must do this a lot. "Alright!" he says, clapping his hands together. "Let's get to work."

\--

According to Gil there's no real preference in what kind of wood but he prefers stuff that's already on the ground. (I keep the sapling I stole with me in my pile. No point in letting that go to waste.) When we've collected up enough for a few armfuls, Gil pulls out a few lengths of twine from his pocket and binds the wood with tight knots. We throw our four bundles back over the fence, climb over it after them, put the sticks in the car and we're off on the road again.

I nap on the way back, our contraband kindling in the back seat (the trunk, of course, is full of beer), and Gil wakes me when we've returned. It's not hardly noon yet, so he makes us something quick to eat and then we're off again to meet Ernst.

Ernst looks thirty-something, with thick mouse-brown hair that isn't styled too carefully, knobbly knees and a nose that looks like it was broken some time ago. But for all his half-smiles and polite introductions in thick German-accented English, he's definitely one of Germany's children and is a little reserved and closed off to me. Though I can't follow the conversation they have, from what I can glean out of body language, Ernst is a decent sort of person.

"Does he know who we are?" I ask Gil later.

Gil shakes his head. "He has no idea. The longer he has no idea, the better it is."

"For you?"

"For him," Gil replies darkly, and says nothing more about it.

We take the dogs for a walk around 4. When Gil hands me Gabi I protest and say that I'm stronger than I look and that there's no need for him to take two giant German Shepherds. So he hands me Lola instead and she proves me wrong in about five seconds. (In my defence, it's not like I'm used to leashing animals. Kuma-thingamajig doesn't exactly do walks.)

We meet four people on our way through the path that runs through his backyard, and Gil strikes up friendly conversations with all of them. Then we walk through the suburbs - everybody seems to love the dogs and those that don't love Gil himself. Before I know it he's gone past two pubs and made twenty new friends, and they're all coming to his celebration.

It should surprise me, how easily Gilbert makes friends.

Wow, that sounds a lot harsher than I meant it to.

He's just, I know a lot of regions balked at the time of living under Prussia (or Imperial Germany) and sometimes he can come off as obnoxious and rude, especially to other nations. And by sometimes I mean all the time. He's not popular with us. _I_ know he means well, but his execution is lacking.

And yet here he is, charming people left right and centre - who have no idea who he really is and who will never put it together - and inviting them all to a gigantic party tonight. They all walk away with brilliant smiles on their faces, introverts and extroverts alike, and promise to be there. And this was the same guy France bitched about! This is the same guy who made alliances with England and then broke them a year later! This - well he even admitted it himself - this is the same guy who slew Prussia and then took his name.

Maybe I think of him too often as Gilbert. But really, Gilbert's the only side I know.

I wish I knew him better when he was actually a country, because as an ex-country with limited tasks and privileges, he's managed to be better at being a human than any of us.

I wonder if it's necessary to be dismantled before that can happen.

Because there's something we lack as nations that makes real people uneasy around us. They don't know what exactly 'those people' do, they don't know how we live our lives. They always find something 'off' about us. It keeps them away. I guess that's okay, but at the end of the day, we have only each other to keep ourselves company. Sometimes, not even that works all too well.

Seeing Gil so popular, everyone all smiles... I'm downright jealous.

But not three hours later, people have started to show up, meeting and chatting around the wooden tipi that will be our bonfire, and Gil has entirely changed. (It's not in a bad way. I see why _Prussia_ commanded such power.)

And everybody can feel it. Before they saw him as a friendly neighbour. Now they look at him, like ... like ...

Like he's a god, or some sort of supernatural, otherworldly creature. I mean, he is. But they don't look at him like they look at me. They hardly look at me at all, even though Gil introduces me to everybody as we go around. But then he finds someone he hasn't seen in forever and a decade and gets easily distracted, so I let him do his thing.

I look away for a minute, then look back at him. I hardly recognise my friend - Gilbert fades and some kind of Puck-like creature emerges. He has a glow about him; even his eyes seem brighter.

Behind Gil, people are finishing arrangements to the wood tipi. Ernst follows up their work with a wet rag - soaked in gasoline, from the smell of it. Probably illegal. Probably exactly what Gilbert wants tonight.

It starts with a lighter when somebody passes him one. He lights one of the Brocken twigs on fire, then transfers this to a larger one, and a larger one, and a larger one still until he's made himself a nice torch. He waves it around and announces something as he dances around the pyramid of deadwood both from the forest and from the mountain. I can't tell what he's saying, Gil doesn't include a translation when there's only one non-German speaker, but it lilts and rhymes and sounds very nice, and everybody applauds.

"Faust," says a voice nearby. It's one of the ladies we met while walking the dogs earlier. "Reciting poetry, it's not common for tonight, but I like it. A classy touch. You seemed not to understand," she explains.

Finally, Gil holds his homemade-torch aloft and screams, " _Getan, geschehn! Geschehn, getan!_ " In one sharp stab, he thrusts the flame into the pyramid of wood, into the bundle of kindling it encloses, and with a loud _whump_ and to massive applause, it goes up in flames.

Then comes the drinking. There's a makeshift table made out of an old stump that someone's propped a barrel on, which people are tapping for beer. Everyone's brought their own vessel - some are the glass boot I've come to expect, others are steins, one person has a travel mug for tea. I help myself to one of the bottles instead, but the beer it contains proves too smokey for my tastes. I drink it quickly and replace the contents with some wine, but that proves too sweet for me. (I know, such a thing actually exists.)

So I try the Maibowle stuff instead, and _that's_ pretty tasty. I nurse a half-bottle full of it as I watch the festivities. Someone shows up with a violin and launches into a folksy tune I can't place; someone else shows up with one of the bartenders we met (who shows up with his own keg and gets a round of applause and a song for his troubles).

Gil comes by to see me about ten minutes later. He grabs me by the waist, clutches me France-style and whirls me around, and when he sets me back down again, he shouts in my face, "Isn't this _great??_ "

"It's something," I laugh. "Is it what you wanted?"

"It's _perfect_ ," he whispers. He hugs me close again, ruffles my hair and accidentally throws my glasses off, and then he's gone again to help out a fellow set up a giant vertical skewer of some sort of meat (it looks like chicken) by the bonfire.

You have to admire Gil for this. Because despite being an ex-nation - how much must that have stung when it happened? I didn't really even know him then - he's got this frenetic energy and this 'can't keep me down attitude'. It's admirable. Which I think is what's feeding into this whole night, because I remember reading something about Teutonic knightly virtues having included faith, and right now, Gil looks the part of a goddamn demon.

It reminds me of what he said about Old Prussia... _a mix, of his cultures and mine_. I didn't know the integration had gone so deep, both ways.

Anyway, that's the last thing I remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time... :)
> 
> Translations:  
> Ernst über "Maibowle" anrufen: call Ernst about the Maibowle  
> Holz aus der Brocken: Wood from the Brocken  
> Lustiger Vögelchen!: funny little bird!  
> Waldmeister: woodruff  
> Das stimmt: That's right.  
> Getan, geschehn! Geschehn, getan: What's done is past! What's past is done!


	6. Chapter 5

5\. _(apec conference)_

I wake up to the sun shining peacefully through the trees, to the tune of idle snippets of birdsong. My back is damp. I'm lying in moist, dewy grass - I guess that explains the dampness -

Wait. Sun - _sun!_ I have a plane to catch! I sit bolt upright and look around. Well, I'm in one piece, except for a pounding headache whenever I move too fast. It's my own fault for drinking so much I _blacked out_ and can't remember what happened last night - I must have fallen at some point - I've skinned my knee, it hurts like a bitch, and three fingers on my right hand are numb, but besides that I don't remember a thing.

Gil is beside me, lying on his stomach, snoring and drooling into the grass.

I have a cell in my jacket. It's useless in Germany to call (unless I want to incur ridiculous charges) but it'll tell me the time.

Please be early, please be early...

It's quarter to one.

My flight to Jakarta from Berlin was three hours ago.

Crapping maple. Colin is probably going to murder me, I think, as I flop back down.

\--

After a few moments' repose spent wallowing in self-pity (for what, I'm not sure, because I did this to myself and it's my own fault that despite my actual age I can't seem to function as a responsible adult) I crawl over to Gil and nudge him in the shoulder until he wakes up.

"Mwuhh," he says eloquently.

"Gil, you'd better get up, we've overslept," I say in resigned defeat.

Gil mutters something and turns over. A moment passes, then he's up like a shot, sitting bolt upright. "Mattie!" he exclaims. "You're here. You're okay!"

"Of course I'm okay," I say, "although I won't be once my boss catches wind of this, but that's another problem for another time."

He crawls over to me on his knees and shakes me by the shoulders. He takes a minute to examine both my eyes. He looks seriously worried. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asks.

Must be Prussian virtues, trains always running on time in Germany. Punctuality is next to godliness with his brother, and he despises being late or having others be late especially for meetings and official business. I don't know why I never thought to expect the same from the guy who raised him. "I'm fine! Really, Gilbert. It's okay, I'll just - I'll tell my boss some kind of story. Things happened, my flight got postponed, whatever. Something like that. It'll be alright."

"That's not my concern," Gil replies. He brushes my bangs back, then realises what he's doing and backs away a little. "Okay. You're okay. _Christ._ Okay."

I can count on one hand the amount of times Gil's been profane. It's actually a little scary. "Don't worry about it!" I tell him. "I'll figure out how to deal with Colin, you shouldn't worry about anything."

"Shouldn't worry?" Gil shrieks. "Shouldn't _worry?!_ "

"Well, yeah," I say. "It's more important that you had a good time last night."

"Are you fucking kidding me," Gilbert replies flatly. "A _good time?!_ "

I'm really not sure why he's so angry. But I guess my shock registers openly on my face because Gil shakes his head and decides, "I guess we'd better go fix this."

\--

Lufthansa was surprisingly understanding about my no-show behavior and offered to book me another flight at only a little extra cost. I think Gil's ability to sweet-talk helped some. And by sweet-talk I mean it began civil and derailed into a yelling match. A far cry from the loveable loudmouth he was yesterday, that's for sure.

"There," he announces finally, and he slams his cellphone on the table. "You're booked for three hours from now."

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

Gil leans against the countertop and folds his arms over his chest. He looks grave. "You really don't remember anything?" he asks.

I shake my head. I've already told him how I forget what happened after the guy with the giant donair showed up.

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "It was a particularly weird night," he tells me.

Okay, I think. "But weird is good, though, isn't it?"

Gil glares like he's gonna throttle me.

"I mean! I mean, that's what - that's what this night was supposed to be about, wasn't it? Strange things? People prank each other, crazy shenanigans? You said - you said something about witches gathering on a mountain, that sounds pretty supernatural. Then don't you want something kind of unexplained?"

He thinks about it. His facial expressions go from pissed off, to meditative, to slowly accepting. "I guess," he says finally. "Weird ... weird is what he would have wanted. And weird is what he gave me."

My fingers throb. I have a suspicion I know who _he_ is. "Then you got what you wanted," I reply. "You said you wanted to drink enough to hallucinate him. Something strange happened. I sure as hell don't remember anything, which tells me that whatever happened was - at a level of people like you and me. That's your clue."

Gil thinks another few minutes - Gil silent and thoughtful is not something I'm used to seeing and to be truly honest it creeps me out a little - and then snaps his fingers. " _Stimmt_ ," he announces, and switches the topic abruptly. "You've got a twelve-hour flight ahead of you, so I'd better get something in you because Lufthansa doesn't feed people like they used to."

But he brightens as he cooks. He makes me some eggs and toast at my request, and force-feeds me most of a jar of marinated herring and some pickles, claiming it's a hangover food he swears by.

By the time he sends me on his way, he's his old self for another year.

\--

I finally get to Jakarta International at what appears to be 10 PM. I panic before realising that there's a time difference, then I panic again because the time difference from Berlin is moving forward.

The stewardess tells me it's now about 3:15 AM local Jakarta time. Great. Well no way will Russia be awake now.

This leaves me with some six hours before 9 AM to plan what the hell I want to say, and perhaps more importantly how to say it. I've got to get Russia alone, but just like Colin has sent me - I check my phone - Jesus H, fifteen missed calls and twenty-one emails - well okay, guess I deserved that ...

Anyway. Point is, Colin's hovering me like a hawk, calling my phone every two seconds like an overprotective mother. And he's not alone. Arthur's boss always takes tighter security measures during meetings, and he tells me the Queen worries when he's out of state. I routinely expect Alfred's boss to go ballistic - usually literally - on security measures. But they all let them do their own thing. Meanwhile, Petrova and Borovsky seem to flank Russia. Always. I don't even know if they allow him to use the washroom alone. How do you tackle a problem like that?

"Excuse me," I say, clearing my throat at the men behind the front desk. They're all asleep. I cough, and one of them, who's propped up his head by perching his cheek on his fist, is startled awake. He blinks blearily a little bit before he notices me and greets me.

We take care of my hotel room situation - they're highly unimpressed by my lack of forward notice on my absence yesterday, until I reassure them I understand I'll be paying for the night I didn't stay with them. Colin will not like that. "One more thing," I ask, "can you tell me what room a friend of mine is staying in?"

The man is bright and enthusiastic in his assent before I tell him what the name is. The second I mutter the name 'Petrova' his face falls flat and he's shaking his head no. Huh. How about Borovsky? But it's like he's anticipated that and he shakes his head again. As for Ivan ... I don't know his last name but I suppose he could also be listed by country? I take a guess - is the Russian representative staying with them?

But the answer is no different. "I cannot tell you this either sir. Nor can I say where the representative in question is staying. Very sorry. If you'll follow Gema Sukarno, he will take you to your suite."

Fortunately for me, Gema Sukarno is a little chattier than his friend.

"These are very strict security measures!" I mention lightly, my tone casual, like I'm commenting on the weather. "I'm really not used to them! I expect these kinds of things with the G20, but never for APEC."

"Yes sir," Gema says.

"I hope it won't be difficult for me to move around?"

"Oh, no! No, it appears it's just the Russians who are doing this."

Uh-huh. Why does that not surprise me. "Oh, that's curious! Why only them?"

Gema shrugs. "These were our instructions, sir. Made very clear and explicit to the hotel staff. Apparently the Russians are not to be bothered." I pout. "Besides," Gema continues, "I don't know why you'd go to a conference and then stay locked up in one room like that."

Oh great! They're in the same room. Shit, this is looking harder than I thought. Dammit Gilbert ... though, it's not his fault, really, he didn't force me to drink that concoction to excess. "Only one bedroom? That would be terrible," I say, while laughing. "Between you and me, I can't stand being in the same room as my boss for more than about an hour."

"Ah, I understand sir. At least it is not the same bedroom. They have four rooms in their suite, it's one of the larger ones we offer."

"I would still probably go mad," I murmur, and Gema grins.

\--

When I get to my room I try to find a copy of the hotel floor plans to try and narrow down where the hell Russia is staying. The only four-room suites appear to be in the East tower (which is good, that's mine) and seem to be room numbers ending in 14, 34 and 54. But even that doesn't say too much. At 64 floors, that's almost 200 rooms. I can't possibly check every single one.

At least it's a start. But not a very good start. I set my alarm for nine.

\--

Morning comes far, far too early, as it often does when you haven't had the greatest night's sleep, and the bed manages to lull me into a false sense of security. 'Oh, just another 15 minutes, I promise you won't be late, this won't be like last time, I promise' - devilish hotel beds, I can't trust them. So again, I'm running sorely behind on my way to Conference Room B on the thirtieth floor (of course, the elevator took forever! it's never on time when I need it to be!) and jogging down the halls in a wrinkled shirt (no time to press it), no tie (forgot to borrow one from Gil after all) and my shoes are probably still scuffed from Walpurgis night (at least there is no vomit on them).

The first sessions are all on existing free trade and trade liberalisation. That normally puts me to sleep, and I'm already exhausted, especially since I didn't have any time for a coffee, so I'm not enthused upon entering the conference room. But surely, I'd avoid any scrutiny for being late. After all, nobody notices me normally, right? Hell, one time Sealand, who's something like half my height and looks nothing like me, tried to sit in for me and he nearly managed it.

But the second I walk through the conference room door Germany says snottily, "Well! Good of you to finally grace us with your presence, Canada," and I feel even more self-conscious about my appearance.

America grins and waves. Must've given me away.

Never thought I'd say this but I really wish I could just disappear.

Then everybody goes back to the meeting like nothing's happened. Either the fates granted my wish, or everyone has forgotten about me again. I'm not sure whether to feel happy or sad.

I find Russia seated between Petrova and Borovsky, and they're quite far down the table from Colin. I smile but Russia doesn't return it with his eyes. Doesn't even look my way. I won't blame him; Petrova and Borovsky flank him like a pair of ceremonial guards on sentry duty (and they're about as dour, to boot).

Meekly I pull out the chair next to Colin, who's so pissed off he actually looks away as I sit down. I couldn't care less. I just hope Russia isn't too ticked. After all, with me having wasted a day like that, we don't have a lot of time left.

I wish Nigeria were here. She doesn't touch the Pacific Ocean so she's not an APEC-goer but she knows a helluva lot more about market economics than I do. I can balance books and do my taxes (and Katya's) and that's pretty well it. By the time we break at ten for coffee (sweet delicious wonderful beverage manna of the gods), I've covered my handout copy of today's agenda with doodles.

Lunch is a straightforward and boring affair. Catering brings food in by the back of the conference room and sets it up on tables, and we all sort of pick at it in turns. Alfred whines about how there are no hamburgers until I tell him to try the peanut satay, which he winds up loving. China is pleasantly impressed about the quality of the tea. Australia, that hoser, wiffles off with the last four roast beef sandwiches so I have to settle for egg salad. And Borovsky and Petrova flank Russia like the Two Towers, with matching irate expressions, as though they're angry that Russia has the gall to build himself a small plate of vegetables and dip. Great.

Instead, I spend most of the lunch chatting with New Zealand and India, neither of whom have been overly impressed by my boss since they met him a few years back. Meanwhile, Alfred and his boss have hijacked Colin for discussions that I probably should be a part of, but I doubt they'll notice my non-presence and Colin can't do anything nearly as destructive as NAFTA without more time, so I can probably leave him alone for an hour. I really should thank Alfred for the convenient distraction later - I'm pretty sure Colin wants to give me a loud blast of what for, having inexplicably not shown up yesterday.

It surprises me that New Zealand and India take practically no time to notice me. Ordinarily it takes a good ten minutes of "Hey! Listen!" before the kiwi even hears anything, but I get spotted instantly with nothing more than a tap on the shoulder and New Zealand shifts to makes room to sit. Then India spots us two and comes over to greet both of us. Without any prompting from New Zealand, he greets me by name. Apparently Commonwealth Christmas did a world of good.

The afternoon passes in much the same manner as the morning, though we've moved on from free market economics to other policies and implementations on technological cooperation, and I can actually make some decent headway here. And by I, I mean Colin, because nobody actually manages to look my way once (besides Alfred now and then). And that is perfectly fine by me, because I'm busy trying to catch Russia's gaze.

It doesn't work. Without a decoy, Petrova and Borovsky catch it almost immediately, and any message I might have gotten across suddenly has to look more like us playing eye tag and me batting my eyelashes flirtatiously.

Which is not the message I want to get across.

Then, to my extreme dismay, Petrova, Borovsky and Russia are the first to get up and make motions towards leaving at the end of the day. So I get up to leave and am halfway out of my chair when something tugs me back by the sleeve.

"Where the hell were you yesterday?" hisses Colin from my side. I don't even look at him. "Matthew, I'm talking to you -"

"Colin," I say, "with all due respect, I have somewhere to be right now. I'll see you later." And I yank my sleeve out of his grip and jet out the hall, to see the heel of Russia's boot just disappear around the corner.

I race after him, ignoring Colin's cries behind me. He can deal.

But as I get to the corner, whirling past it and narrowly missing a representative aide - China's, I think - coming down the corridor, I find myself entering a large atrium with far too many people milling about. Russia and his bosses are nowhere to be found. Where did they go? How could he have moved so quickly in such a short time? I know, long legs and all, but come on now -

There! He- no, wait, that's not him, right height but Russia's hair is less blond and more grey...

Frantically I whirl around and double back to the East tower. He may be back there already.

I round the corner and thank maple, thank fucking maple, I'm in luck. I catch sight of Russia, walking behind his bosses, looking glum. I can't see his face from here, but his shoulders are slumped and his posture makes him seem shorter. Geez, he looks so depressed.

They're heading towards the elevators, so I have to think quickly. Need an excuse, an excuse to talk to Russia, anything, think, think! I catch up soon, and sneak up behind them.

And then everything seems to happen at the same time.

\- the elevator nearest me dings once - going up  
\- Petrova and Borovsky stop walking  
\- Petrova pushes the down button  
\- the elevator near me that's going up opens its doors  
\- another elevator farther down dings twice - going down  
\- Petrova and Borovsky, and thus Russia, resume walking away, towards the elevator going down  
\- I panic and my eyes go wide  
\- a flood of people get out the up elevator and as the last ones exit  
\- I grab the back of Russia's coat, and haul him into the up elevator with me  
\- then I slam my hand on the door close button and select a floor much, much higher than ours, I don't even register the actual number  
\- the elevator, mercifully, closes  
\- Petrova and Borovsky's twin livid faces appear split seconds before it shuts completely and begins its ascent.

Safe.

We're alone.

I'm still panting and out of breath, like I've run a mile. But it's okay, I can calm down now. And finally ask Russia some questions.

I wait three floors before pressing stop - this'll buy us some time. Then, I turn to Russia.

Who looks incredibly angry. At the same time, my heart sinks, and my pulse begins to race with legitimate fear, two sensations I didn't think I'd ever feel together at the same time. From the moment I pushed the button his face goes stark white, his expression ballistic, and his eyes narrow dangerously. He's panicking, obviously, even more than I was, anxiously looking - for what, I'm not sure, but when he finds it, he staggers backwards like it'll burn him. Something at the top corner.

It strikes me very suddenly that I've never actually been alone with Russia. Ever. There's always been another nation there, or bosses, or aides, or something. And I've seen him angry, I've seen him wrathful, but it hasn't yet been directed at me...

Maple, what have I done?

"Russia," I say softly, trying to be appeasing, "I'm sorry I had to do this -"

The next thing I know I'm slammed up against the wall and my breath rushes out of my lungs. It hurts, but so does the back of my head where it whacked against the glass. "Ow, christ," I moan. Russia is in front of me, his face and body very close, his arms on either side, pinning my lower half with his, oh god - I can't escape. Oh shit, is this the coat where he keeps that pipe? "Um -"

"Shhh!" he hisses, and then he leans in closer still until his face is nestled into the side of my neck and he is literally breathing down it. Then he bites down and sucks. Really wish I'd had time for a tie now. I bet they will never find my body.

"Wha-what are you doing?"

"I am the sorry one," he says quietly, murmuring the words - oh maple, he's so close I can feel his lips move on my skin, this should not be so arousing - "you must be forgiving me later, da? But first. First be careful, be very careful, Canada, what you say. You understand?"

"Yes," I gasp, and he slams his left hand on the glass next to my hip. It's the sound that terrifies me more than anything.

"Don't! Do not form actual words. Listen. There is camera, hidden at opposite corner at top of cabin. From here they cannot see me but they are seeing you, and lips - lips can be read. Now you understand."

"Mm-hmm," I say instead. Don't look at the camera don't look at the camera.

"Next, and this is important, yes? Make it look good. Okay? Make it look -" Russia undulates against me, oh fuck, he's - he's really strong - "... convincing," he finishes. "After all," and - oh _fuck_ , his right hand's busy with my belt, I can't do this I can't I can't - "we must have reason to be here in elevator, for privacy. Reason to have stopped the elevator. To be trapped with each other. This is such reason, yes?"

"Uh-huh," I moan. I let my head fall back against the glass, wincing a bit at the tenderness - there's definitely going to be a bruise there tomorrow. I'll add it to the one on my knee. Then Russia nuzzles and kisses my neck - guess that's what I get for exposing it like that - and I shut my eyes, pretending this is not what it is, pretending this is an illicit tryst, pretending it feels good, pretending I'm pretending it feels good.

Russia gets my pants open and a hand down them and oh, oh maple - the soft leather of his gloves - "Of course, I also must do my part to be convincing, and, and for that, I - Canada, I apologise."

His hand's around my dick and he's sorry?

"So. You have questions, I assume," he says, with his lips against my neck. For ... credibility purposes he licks me, and for equally credible purposes I grip onto his jacket, and moan something that I hope sounds like assent. I, I can probably touch him, right? Because I'm getting hard and it's distracting as hell to think when - when Russia is giving me a handjob, _oh, shit_ , Russia is _giving me_. A _handjob!_ (A pretty decent one, too, though someone like me can't complain at the rate I get action.) But mostly because I want to touch him, and isn't that polite?

His hair is really soft, and the sound he makes when I run my fingers through it, gosh...

"I am being watched always now, I cannot get any time alone. This began few years ago and slowly increased." He twists his hand, and I swear it's him and his talented fingers that are making me do things like - like grind up into his grip like a slut, because apparently I've lost control of my own hips? "I do not know how much time we have here, so I cannot explain that yet. We need better code, you agree?"

"Yes, ye- ah -" he nips my neck, but I can feel his lips, he's ... smiling? "... please -" Good smiling and not angry smiling, right?

"I propose the following: during email exchange," ordinarily I'm sure I would be more disturbed with Russia's hand on my ass, down my thigh, pulling my leg up and around his hips, "you see the timestamp, says which word of the first four sentences to use. Four-word messages. Limiting but it will do. Yes?" but really, it's beneficial, because it stops my pants from falling down and completely embarrassing me. Also, oh god oh god, hooking my ankle around Russia's hips lets him step even closer, so he pushes against me, rolling his hips. " _Yes?_ " he prompts again. I can barely hear him, because shit fuck maple, he's hard. My mouth goes dry.

Should I maybe reciprocate somehow? "Ngh, yes," I reply.

He snickers but doesn't say anything. "Good. Don't be afraid to use zero, is good to have no word, throws them off. Send something at fifteen past midnight, I will expect first word in third sentence and fifth word in fourth sentence to be meaningful. Understood?"

Yes, I understand, but I'm also a little distracted. "Aah..." I moan. Russia's touch is just centimetres off where I really want it, and if he's getting the message I'm giving him with my hips then he's ignoring it completely!

"Koniechno, pravilno, send something at midnight exact once every so often, that will really throw them!"

"Yes, mmm - Russia -"

His hand stills, and I squirm, hoping that'll make it move again. But he doesn't continue. Instead he backs up and looks me in the eye as he says seriously, "No, you must call me by name. Ivan, please." Apparently it's 'ee-Vahn' instead of 'Eye-vin', which was how I'd been pronouncing it in my mind. "Or Vanya, if you like. Is short form. I do not care which, but, but not that, not like this."

"Vanya," I whisper. It has a certain graceful, exotic way of rolling off my tongue. And Ru- Ivan, Ivan doesn't appear to mind, he bites his lip and looks nearly pained. Which is when he swoops in and kisses me deeply. And I really should protest, I mean there's convincing and then there's this, but he's begun again with his hand and it feels amazing, he feels amazing, he's even a good kisser, ah dear god, his mouth is hot.

I'll let him lead, but I'm not letting go of his hair. Not like I have to really direct him; Ivan tilts as he pleases, and the slow movements of our lips brushing together is so natural I won't question it. His grip on my leg is light and supporting, contrasted by the almost bruising motion of his hips as he moves them against mine. It presses his erection into my other thigh, which - makes me flush so warmly that any inch of my skin exposed to air is tingling. I should - I should touch him. Touch him like - like he's touching me.

There's a _krrkt_ sort of noise behind him, and then the speaker above the buttons on the panel near the door comes to life. "Yes hello, you call for help?"

Ivan breaks the kiss. "Nyet," he says breathily, clears his throat and tries again, more loudly, "no, it is fine. There is no trouble."

"We can send help? How many are there in the cabin?"

"There are two of us here. We are both perfectly fine, no immediate assistance required, thank you."

"OK boss, whatever you say," the speaker says, "if you don't mind, we are busy now - 5 o'clock, you know - and you are between floors but quite safe. Someone should be there in about five minutes."

"That would be excellent," Ivan replies, looking positively predatory, and the second the speaker _krrkts_ off he resumes our previous activities.

I feel like we're supposed to be discussing something here. "Is there -" I begin, but he cuts me off with a twist and a grip so tight it's just shy of painful. Unfortunately, that's ... that's exactly what I like and - oh fuck, if Rus- Ivan, if Ivan doesn't stop his antics soon things will get messy in here.

"Don't," he gasps against my neck. "Do not speak of anything we cannot be seen speaking of. I beg you," he continues, his hand grasping my thigh and holding it firmly, at the right height for him to thrust against it. When he speaks again his voice has taken on a shaky, unstable tone. "We must speak of these things later, in private. You understand."

"Yes," I pant, spreading my legs wider, trying to take him in further - I don't even care how sluttish this must look on the camera, I'm sure they're used to people getting off in elevators! - "yes ..."

" _Good_ ," he croons, and rewards me with some sort of prescience that I don't know where he's pulled it from but oh, his every single stroke hits exactly where I want him to, and it's perfect, and ngh, I just want him to keep touching me, keep going like this, until the very second I feel the onset of orgasm - the tight feeling in my balls, the pressure is too much too much, thrusting into his hand and holding him close and tight.

Of course, Ivan chooses precisely this moment to whisper, "Thank you, Canada, thank you for your assistance." He nips my neck and I'm _gone_ , coming undone in his hand.

He backs away from me then and digs in the pocket of his overcoat with the hand (the one that isn't filthy) for a handkerchief. In silence he cleans his glove while I try and convince my legs they're not made of gelatin and that they can indeed support my weight. Then he stuffs the handkerchief and both gloves back in his pocket and stands there, innocently, bare-handed.

"Can I ..." I offer, gesturing awkwardly towards him.

"Nyet, spasiba," he says, although I can clearly see he's still hard even though he's trying to cover it up with his overcoat and by crossing his legs at the ankle casually (like he didn't just jack off _another nation_ in an elevator). "That was for you. I meant it; thank you."

"You're welcome," I murmur distractedly, and there isn't much chance to say or do anything more before the hotel's security staff pound on the door and activate the emergency overrides to let us out.

Once we're out of the cabin, we're greeted by an unpleasant sight - three bosses looking at us _very_ angrily.

Colin looks like he's about to prolapse his iris out of stress. And he's the least concerned; Borovsky and Petrova are each so angry that one wrong move would probably invite World War III.

I won't push my luck. But when they each take Ivan by an arm and frogmarch him away, I chance a look back.

His posture's slumped forward again, lost. Defeated.

"Come on," Colin snaps at me, "you've got some explaining to do," and though he's less physical about it, I let him lead me off as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this all took so long! It's been a bad winter.
> 
> Translations:  
> Stimmt: Right  
> Koniechno, pravilno: of course, you're right  
> Nyet, spasiba: No thank you


	7. Chapter 5 ⅓

5 ⅓. _(walpurgisnacht, revisited)_

You have to admire Gil for this. Because despite being an ex-nation - how much must that have stung when it happened? I didn't really even know him then - he's got this frenetic energy and this 'can't keep me down attitude'. It's admirable. Which I think is what's feeding into this whole night, because I remember reading something about Teutonic knightly virtues having included faith, and right now, Gil looks the part of a goddamn demon.

I watch the festivities for another few minutes in silence. The crowd is loud enough to mask my thoughts and there's a pleasant dullness beginning in my veins. Whatever this Maibowle stuff is, it's good, and I help myself to a few more cups. Nobody seems to mind (hell, nobody seems to notice my doing it, even).

As the night grows on, it gets warmer, so I ditch my overcoat by Gil's and lay it on the ground. Between my coat and Gilbert's, I make myself a nice bed, and the snow isn't so wet that it seeps through so I lay back and relax, watching what stars I can see twinkle. The horizon is blocked out by the trees but the stars at zenith are pretty.

This is roughly the same sky I would have seen in about six hours' time. Maybe a little more southerly. Ottawa and the Brocken aren't precisely the same latitude, circles drawn on the Earth.

Sorry, not the Brocken, can't be, we're still outside of Gil's place.

Feels like a mountain though. Must be the wind.

Jupiter winks down from above. I feel like, if I squint hard enough, I can see the four moons, even though that's impossible without a telescope and nobody with perfect vision could see that, let alone someone with my eyesight. Doesn't twinkle as much as the stars do. Jupiter is smaller but much closer.

Jupiter is the only one not twinkling. The rest of them are green, blue, red, orange even, yellow - and then back again. Periodically. Same pattern.

Turbulence isn't usually so predictable. Dear Gilbert, even the atmosphere is in sync with you tonight, a perfect resonance for your strange rebirth. Happy birthday, Gilbert. You've got one hell of a candle to blow out.

I hear a hiss over in the bushes and prop myself up on my elbows to investigate. "Psst," I hear again. "Over here!"

Over where, I wonder, and get up, abandoning my cup of delicious ambrosia and my jacket. "Who's that?" I call. Don't know if they can hear me, usually nobody can.

But they have excellent hearing. "Canada," they call. "Canada, come here."

The Big Dipper curls around my spine, yanks me forward. I like to say it this way because it absolves me of any action on my own part. It's a nice night for honesty.

But I am curious.

(curiosity killed the cat)

Yes well, I'm not a cat.

 _There's_ a colour I didn't see in Sirius - bright purple. Beautiful clear violet. Violet shortest wavelength, bends most. The eyes. Those eyes. I know those eyes. I know that colour.

"Russia," I say, reaching forward, trying to catch him. But my hand passes through thick atmosphere. Just a picture, maybe? Just refraction? He shimmers and disappears. I try to stop him - I try to grab hold, make him stay, maybe he can tell me what it is he needs from me - but my hands grab onto nothing.

My hands ...

My hands are glowing in front of me. Is it the moonlight?

(No, it's a "new moon". Moon on the other side of Earth now, receiving daylight. China sees the moon right now. Parts of Russia. Can't see the moon in the same sky as the sun, though.)

Glowing ivory. Ivory starlight, and they sort of - they twinkle, they move from green blue red orange yellow - green blue red orange yellow.

I am a pattern, I think, in sync with Gilbert too.

\--

It's about fifteen minutes and three beers later (what? It's his birthday, he's allowed) that Gilbert finally realises Matt is nowhere to be found.

The alcohol has left him with a pleasant lightheadedness and so, his first inclination is not to panic but rather to ask around, in his typical jocular manner, if anybody's seen the lightweight with the hoodie. Gil neglects to mention the soft eyes and beautiful face and hair like silk. He's not that drunk. (Not yet.)

Nobody's seen him. Huh.

It's not like Mattie to just up and leave like that, Gil thinks. "Does anyone know how much that kid drank?" Maybe he's sick. But if he's off puking in the forest, Gil should be there for him, to hold his hair and rub his back.

Ernst shrugs, "He's probably fine. Guy said he could take a beer. You know, apparently they have decent trippels where he comes from! Anyway, don't worry about it."

So Gil ignores it for the moment.

A half hour after that Mattie is still missing, and the unhappy feeling in Gilbert's belly tells him this isn't just nothing. He asks around. Shaking heads and shrugging shoulders tell him that nobody's seen anyone by the description Gilbert gives.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. He goes to his coat, partially buried under Matthew's jacket, and rifles through the pockets for his cellphone. There's reception, thankfully, but when he calls Matt's phone it takes some time before he hears a ringing sound in Matthew's pockets at his feet. Bastard didn't take his damn phone!

But that gives him a better idea. He whistles for Lola and Purzel. "Track," he commands the dogs, and gives them Matt's jacket to stick their noses in.

Lola doesn't waste a second. Immediately, she whines and tears off into the forest, Purzel not far behind, and Gil has to jog to catch up to them. He feels triumphant, though he'll feel much better with Matt safe back at camp. He's already planning a stern speech for the brilliantly stupid move of wandering around in a foreign forest while intoxicated.

\--

The fog on the Brocken changes and the shadows become longer. I must be moving away from the fire, but I barely feel my feet anymore.

(I should tell Gilbert where I'm going.)

But I don't.

Where did Ivan go? I need to find him.

There's a knock at the door suddenly, and I whirl around. When I open it I find a pipe hovering, a little water faucet on the apex of its curve, but as I reach out to take it, it disappears.

I try to walk through the door to

push - puuuush -

\- push through the surface -

\- some invisible door barrier

see what's on the other side, where did the pipe go, that pipe, is it Ivan's pipe? Did he leave it here? Can I bring it back to him?

I want to see him again. Maybe he can tell me what it is he needs from me?

It takes significant effort to move through the door, like something is holding me back. The air is thick here, foggy and purple. Like walking through water. So difficult.

As I cross the threshold, I become, something - more. Something - less. Something altogether not me.

je suis devenu -

"Mattie!" I hear behind me. And my heart stops.

Maybe I should remove it.

"Mattie!" it calls again.

_Run, hellion!_

I run

(pas mal difficile d'y faire dans l'air si humide)

Behind the trees I crouch and peer through the trunks.

A man with a creature pet beast eightlegs one head dog?

No, horse.

Sleipnir. I have heard of you. I remember Vinland, after all.

"Mattie," the shadow calls. Red eyes. Red not violet. I don't want, no, no, _need_ to find Ivan, must, where is he gone. "Dude, what the hell are you doing?"

"Why do you have two eyes?" I call. "If you have two eyes, then that's not your horse."

"... What?" the shadow replies.

"That isn't your horse," I tell him again. "Or - did they give you your eye back, all-father?"

Did you lose the wisdom when you got it back?

Was that the deal you made?

"Mattie, seriously, speak English," the shadow says, and takes a step closer. I back up, splishsplash the waterair so thick. Kick up the dirt and sediment au fond du lac.

I'll run again if I have to don't make me do it demon thief.

The fog around me thickens curdles. Wraps around me cloaklike. Pulls me in. It's harder to move in this waterair, if I could just fly over it ... Then, _poof_ \- there's the pipe again, floating in front of me on the surface of the waterair.

Convenient.

Will it take me to Russia, I wonder?

It must, it's his pipe...

(take me home, home is the mountain - Logan? Yes but no but too far. Not my mountain but this one will do.)

"Matthew, you're really starting to scare me," I hear the shadow black demon thief say, approaching again. "No more jokes, okay? C'mon back." Sleipnir makes some kind of gurgle sound next to him. I know, I want to tell the creature pet beast, I will free you from your burden of this evil demon thief once I've dealt with Ivan's problems, but first things first.

I grab the pipe, thinking initially to use it as a weapon, bash the shadow's face in even though shadows don't have faces. But as I touch it a second idea strikes me, very suddenly, something I've read before.

"I'm invisible," I say aloud -

I'm _invisible_ -

\- and as I say it the water     vanishes  
      fog     vanishes  
          - I along with it -

I leave my (un)body behind.

\--

Gil is... in shock.

It takes a minute for the strangeness to wear off completely. When it does, he looks down at Lola and Purzel, who are giving him their signature 'what now, boss?' eyes. "Well go on and find him, then," he tells the dogs, sighing heavily.

Lola and Purzel don't move. Gil hands them Matt's jacket, which they sniff a second time.

Then they both sit down. Lola starts scratching her ear. Purzel's doing the head-cocked-at-an-angle thing which he knows usually gets him biscuits and typically Gil would think that's really cute. But not now.

He tries it again. "Come on, guys, anything?" They sniff the jacket. They wander around in circles. They lie down. Lola flips over and rubs her coat into the wet grass. Gil will have to towel her off later.

But Gil really doesn't care about later if there's not gonna be a Matt in it! What the hell will Ludwig say when he comes home with no Canada at that dumb conference they both need to go to and all Gil can say is oops, I'm sorry, I kinda lost _a middle power of the world in a forest?!_

And for that matter, what will the chancellor say? Oh hell. What will Canada's boss say? How the hell will the chancellor manage to break the news to the Canadian President? No wait, British - Prime Minister. Well whatever. Guy who Canada takes orders from and bitches about half the time.

Gil starts to panic a little more. Sang-froid in the face of a certain enemy he can do. This is not a certain enemy, this is - something completely different, something almost fantastical in nature.

Where the _fuck_ did Mattie go. Why in God's name can't the dogs find him? Like he just - just disappeared or something?

Can nations do that?

Which reminds him...

...This particular nation _can_.

"C'mon Mattie," he calls out, his voice shaking more than he'd like to admit, "fun's over now, okay? R-real funny, good practical joke. I like a good joke. S'a good night for jokes. Now just - just come on back to me, alright?"

There is only silence. "Goddammit Mattie," he yells - he's getting angry, he leaves cursing and blaspheming like a sailor for when he's _real_ angry, "you promised me you'd never do this shit to me. Your funny little disappearing act. You want to go back on your promise, well fine, just - just pick another day, okay?" Pick a day when we're not both drunk and it's not after midnight in a place you're not familiar with, he thinks, grumbling. This night is already creepy enough on its own!

Lola, at his feet, whines. She wants to go back to the fire. Purzel's already left.

"Matthew," he wheedles, trying the guilt angle, "I told you about Hesse and how he left me. Y-you can't - you can't do this to me like he did."

Silence.

Where is Matthew Williams?

\--

down     down down    russhing   down    grab the pipe    fr e e  f   a     l        l  
\- no! -

No time, no time, to nose the edge of the water pipe up, faucet in front, before the ground meets me.

I angle my flight path. Now I am straight and true and parallel groundlike one line Jupiter

I hurtle forward -

TREE! - I dodge!

ANOTHER! - whip of the wind against my cheeks

These trees are worrisome meddle tall weed

I quickly perch myself on the pipe, straddling it like a witch's broom. It is an apt description as we - the pipe and I - zoom through the forest at breakneck pace, aloft on metal broomstick, narrowly dodging cattails poking through, amid the waterair. A flash of pain and a snap, as a lock of my hair is caught on a branch and breaks off.

Up, far above the clouds, I think. I should go up, up to join the festivities. (And solve the tree problem.)

I have been given a gift, I can't spoil it with something silly like my death.

      (but in a way I have died something different?)

I pull up on the pipe to steer us.

With a whistle of air, past my ears, we valiantly break through the canopy of arching bony fingers leafless unadorned to the purest black freedom of the skies, à l'exception des celestiales. Jupiter. And his children! Ganymede, I see you clearly now. Callisto-Io-Europa----A-line-

(How strange for a thunder god not to have a hammer. Perhaps he is gone now that I am as the thunderbird.

Can there be more than one? I think so. More than one thundergods. Perhaps Thor is hiding in the heavens with Jupiter, then. Perun too.

No dog gods invited to Woland's night of nights, but nomed demons welcome!

My friends! j'approche! I shall see you soon!

The waterpipe turns at my leastest thought and it's very sensitive. I hardly need to nudge it this way and that for left and right. Next development travelling some safety concerns call now!

Find the party. I have to concentrate con _CEN_ trate **con** _Sent Rate!!!_ Party. Find the party. There's a party tonight. I need to be there. I have been invited, I am the guest of honour.

(I am not actually. But nobody needs to know I'm not him.)

I steer a course for the peak where the altar is. Hmm, altar? Or pulpit?

I believe the Whisperer waits for me at the pulpit. Yes. We _address_ our fellow partygoers first. Ladies and gentlemen and childthieves and bogeymen and glorious sprites and geists alike!

Pulpit. Yes. I shall meet him there.

The demon thief cannot see me like this. He cannot see me as I am now, glowing with power. He may have the vessel shell I left behind, if he feels so inclined.

As for me, _I_ know my flesh exists and even I can barely see it, twinkling in and out of existence. When it does, it is the beautiful violet of Ivan's eyes, but shimmery cloudy fog, wispy whispery haze, I'm made of some nebulous strange breathy material. There yet not there.

Invisible!

_I'm invisible!_

The mountain is west, northwest of here, jagged maw of the underworld reaching heavenward. Not long now. I can see the peak in the distance, can see the fog gathering up its cliffs and spiralling around to join the acrid smoke of the fires.

They've started without me.

What naughty souls. Femmes du chasse-galerie, n'avez vous pas attendu le long d'la nuit pour vos maris?

Well, not everybody can be patient, eh?

The rocky ledge is still partially covered by snow la baisse des grosses graisses l'engazonnement blanchi. I circle around it a few times before I manage to slow the pipe enough to hop off without tumbling or rolling.

A giant bonfire has been my beacon lighthouse, tall triangular bright red tipi. I smell brimstone and sulphur and wonder if this is hellfire.

But that's not where the smell is coming from.

Stationed around the fire are several women. They are the sulphurous ones. None of them look particularly alike and yet I know they form a collective whole, one-two-many. They have long ears like batwings, poking out of long wet black curtain - this their stringy grease-hair, unattractive. Their skin pale green-grey and iridescent, with great wide toothy smiles full of jagged ivory stone therebetween a great cracked canoe split wide. They wear old fur, matted and discoloured, fetid and putrefying, but many of them have shed their dress and knotted it at the waist to stand topless, their voluptuousness apparent. I wonder if that's what makes them hunch over, but then I see it's the weight of a pack on the upper shoulders.

Qallupilluit.

A petty man would call them ugly. But they are my charges and they belong to me. I care for them, from the roots of their greasy hair to the tips of their swollen breasts.

"Hail," I tell the tallest one. "It's strange to see you by the fires."

"We are all giving up our affinity for cold for you, Villager," she croaks, "but only for a short while."

"You have three hours," rasps a second, "you must be quick."

"Am I not meeting him here?"

"You're late," Whispers a voice from behind me. I whirl around to find:

a tall man  
taller than Russia  
he must be well past seven feet  
grey and wizened  
but he stands straight up  
doesn't lean at all on his staff  
gnarled wood so white it looks like bone  
a bird's foot on the base  
a model of a thatched-roof hut on the pedestal  
his cloak is as long as he is  
the warm colour of brown moose leather  
embellished with accents of foxfur

This is the Whisperer. Great Winter Whisperer.

(he is also maybe a general)

He's familiar, frozen, somehow.

The red eyes like blood berries are new.

I bow low. Moving so fast makes my head spin whorl eddies in front of my eyes. "You're fading, milord," I tell his feet.

"I know," he Whispers, sighing. "I have enough for this." He touches my shoulder and I return debout pour l'addresser.

"We should go now."

"There is yet time, Consort. Come. We will head for the altar."

I follow obediently, only stopping to wave goodbye to the ladies - but when I turn around, they've all vanished and the fire is

        out.

\--

How much had Matthew had, anyway?! Gil refuses to believe a nation could be so easily intoxicated. Maybe that's just his own tolerance speaking.

He returns with Lola back to the fire, where Gabi and Purzel are. Lola - useless creatures, good thing they're cute - sits down beside them both after a few minutes begging for food with no luck.

"Haven't found him yet?" Ernst has appeared at his side with beer. He hands it to Gil.

"I found him, alright," Gil says. "But he's acting real weird. He just - took off." Maybe Ernst saw something. "Did you see him hitting the booze that hard? Sometimes he says he can handle these things but really can't."

Ernst shakes his head. "But I've been here and there and around all night, it's possible I missed something. He didn't look too wasted last I checked. He's probably having you on."

"Least awesome joke in the world," Gil mutters.

Ernst shrugs, "It's that kind of night, though, isn't it? Good night for pranks!"

"This isn't a prank," Gil argues. Something about it feels horribly wrong. If it is a prank, then maybe Canada oughta take some lessons from Romania - that guy knew how to keep things lighthearted! "And he's not German, he doesn't get the whole prank thing for tonight. Maybe on Hallowe'en."

"On what?"

"That October thing Americans celebrate."

"Oh yeah," says Ernst. "Well, whatever, he's taken off in the woods, probably he's taking a leak or something. He'll wander back our way. We're not exactly hard to find - gigantic bonfire and lots of noise." And that's true enough. "Now come on! We need another theatrical performance! What's the one you always do about death and rebirth, that old lied? You don't have to sing it but it sounds so nice!"

Gil looks back at the dark forest. "Maybe in a bit," he says. He'll wait another few minutes.

\--

We make our ascent quickly to the top of the mountain. At the altar we will be meeting the others... for tonight I am the consort of the Winter Whisperer.

(Nobody's yet suspected that I am not the real consort.)

I don't expect to find much so imagine my surprise when there is a field waiting for me, a broad wide flat floorlike clearing, not wood, not stone, not tile. Beautiful hall gleaming structure trees columns sky velvet canopy mountain castle! What a place to hold a grand ball.

The Winter Whisperer catches my eye and places a hand on my shoulder. "You must greet them before the festivities may begin," he says.

"How do I do that?"

"They will approach. They will kiss your knee, and then they may partake. You will know them."

Suddenly - I turn back around and in an instant - the field is populated, teeming with noise and activity and life of demons and sprites and all manner of peoples, all manner of heights and colours and morals. Oh yes, I focus on the closest ones, I do know them. Some of mine - some of Germany's (or Prussia's) - some of Russia's.

And some not-quite Russia's, for over beyond I see a vila, her form ethereal boundless smoke reigned in by some magic, I'm not sure? leaving plume tendrils of pearlescent hoare as she dances. She catches my eye and winks. I bite back a moan.

...Yes, I see why they kill for her.

Welala approaches first wearing a bear skin and Property Woman (I can tell her by her flathead, mohawk style, not hair but flesh made sharp and pointed by eons of binding). Otherwise she is brownish long haired young and sweet voiced.

They bow.

I am embarrassed for it. "You don't have to bow to me," I say. Aren't they mine? Aren't they my children, less and yet more human than me?

But they don't hear, and instead bend low one-legged to kiss my knee.

It stings. It tingles. It aches.

"Your mask," someone close by reminds me. This element is an individual green-eyed lank-haired deep-scarred man-not-man-not-demon. I feel a sort of tremble -

"Your mask," he says again.

Of course! Of course they won't know me! They think I'm him - the real consort! A con of sorts!

Then the kobolds come - tens of them, dressed snappily in waistcoats and blazers, like little dandies, and they too kiss my knee. The tingle grows stronger with magic and by their last mouth muscle motion I have to put my weight on my other foot for fear of falling. The consort is not a weak man.

(The consort, in fact, of General Winter, is a being, I could not possibly, think of, as, ...weak! Strange, ill-mannered and flippant, yes. Weak, never. If I betray my hand, if I should let the mask slip, they'll all knowknowknow.)

On a more... Faustian note, let we to say it, these kobold are too well-dressed to slave, or indeed kindle, dwindle or writhe; Goethe had it wrong, but he's right about ignoring them. (You don't.)

Speaking of the con sort, there is Leshiy. He is great and treelike tall with limbs like trunks and he too bends and bows and kisses my knee. Now it aches like the scrape of sandpaper.

Initially first the imps boulders I think such but they somersault out and roll towards me and - yes, and kiss my knee, every last one. A little lindworm slithers up and flicks its tongue across the kneecap. I whimper; I hear is a faint crack and I think my knee has almost had enough but but the hall, the hall is still full of demons yet to pass me and the certainty of pain has me clutched in its terror anticipation.

One of England's pixies. For a moment I fear it sees the real me, flash in its eyes of recognition so I whisper "Shhh - our little secret," it is the form of a child, fat-faced and red, it gleams its toothsmile brightlarge as it demongiggles. It doesn't understand. It waddles away.

(but not before it has dragged its rough lips across my skin! the agony, I can't take much more -)

Suddenly there is someone I do not expect. "Mishipizhiw," I greet the underwater panther, "I'm surprised to see you here," I blurt before I remember that he thinks I'm someone I'm not.

"You don't know who I am, screw you," he snaps.

Of course I know who he is. He is one of mine, he's from the Great Lakes. "I expected someone else instead," I mumble whisper.

Mishipizhiw snorts. "I got an invite. So I'm here. _Man_. Food better be good." He kisses my knee unnecessarily hard comme un marteau à réflexes, et à peine (en peine, en _douleur_ ) je lui reviens pas botter les jambes.

The basket ogress, an ugly old woman childthief that humans warn their offspring against, doesn't recognise me either.

None of them recognise me. They are mine and they don't even recognise me.

I know, I have a mask, but I had thought, perhaps the eyes? They would know me by my eyes?

Ah, but the consort has eyes like mine, green blue red orange yellow, no, _purple_. Purple and that's uncommon. They think I'm him. Of course I'm him!

Best they don't know, they might give me away. The Whisperer dislikes deception and demons deal in it.

Dzunukwa comes arm-in-arm with Baba Yaga, like two biddies, both in red hats and hunched over, their age apparent. They make me lift my knee so that they can kiss it because - they claim - they're too old to kneel themselves. "Kids these days!" Baba Yaga says. "No respect for their elders."

"Mmm-hmmm," agrees Dzunukwa grimly.

"Why, in my day, consort feared me greatly! Babushka Yaga meant something great to Rus'! Now it's move-you-old-crone this and why-should-I-lift-my-knee that, like I am in health of twenty-year-old! Thinks he's above superstition, never holds the door for me anymore..." "Ah, the stories I could tell you of _Villager_ 's impudence! why that little mongrel, he used to pray to me for wealth but now who holds the purse-strings, eh?"

They both push past me.

The next is Baubas, an evil spirit with long lean arms, wrinklefingers, red eyes (so! many! red! eyes!). Black dark creature living under the carpet, under the house, in some dark spot of the room.

I haven't met him ever, I don't know how I know this about him.

The next is Žiburinis, a terrifying forest spirit, phosphorescent skeleton much like I have become, so too glowing gleaming is he. In fact... this is what makes me suspect that it is a certain person's doing, a certain person's magic...

But not Lithuania, although it's his demon - not quite.

Isn't it?

If not him then who?

Erlking is next, foresthaunter alder childthief, with pale skin and red eyes and white hair and long, stretchy wiry digits. He grabs me around the knee sensually with them before he closes his eyes and kisses my knee like a lover's mouth. His tongue presses against the sore that has formed and he licks into the wound possessively. His lips come away redstained bloody.

I feel every fraction of his flesh stroking across me as soldiers of an advancing army immense unimaginable. It hurts more than I could ever have _dreamed_.

"Don't cry," he coos sarcastically, as he stands again to wipe the tear off my cheek. "It's only a little longer."

It's too long already!

My vision blurs and wanders among the crowd, and falls upon my vila, who blows me a flirtatious kiss. She approaches slowly but approach she does.

A noisy waldgeist is next. It presses its mouth close enough to kiss and holds it there, hovering, a fraction above my skin. It might as well have hit my knee with his hammer club fist! My mind spells conjures a pain twice as debilitating.

Please, I beg my vila. Her dance relieves some of the ache.

There is then a bakaak, a bag of bones under a tent of transluscent skin sheen of a soap bubble, preys upon warriors with invisible arrows and a club, and the windigo, equally emaciated but much taller, twenty feet high, with great antlers and long lanky limbs. Red eyes both.

They don't know me but I can't resist speaking. "I hope you will both have enough to eat," I say.

DON'T. TEMPT. ME. CONSORT, the windigo booms without moving her lips.

Finally the vila approaches -

she is not

\- she is not herself

\- she is not a vila after all

\- my beautiful, long-legged majestic purple-eyed wonder (she's not heavy she's just big-boned) is no beauty ethereal ether-real

\- she is in fact like the erlking's daughter like devilure

She is _rusalka_ , and not a pretty one. Her face demonic and her hair wet stringy hanging lank over her eyes, her face gaunt her eyes sunken, her skin full of sores and her grinning mouth full of sharp teeth.

Her appearance horrifies me.

I try not to let it show.

"You don't like what you see," she rasps.

I don't try hard enough.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I thought you were someone else."

"I'm the same one," she says.

She kneels and presses her foul lips to my skin, and this one hurts most of all.

"Remember that you can't trust what you see!" she cackles.

A poltergeist, noisy pranky individual, stomps on my foot and then kisses my knee - but I don't even feel his pain anymore, my heart so torn, billowed buffeted high on spirit of love and plunged plummeted low on bittersweet betrayal.

      You can't trust what you see!

but at this last there are some ten elements left and the end _The End!!!_ is nigh.

And these I recognise, for they are mine....  
...and I think they recognise me, for I am a mirror reflection a  mir   mirror   mere  image.

Oh, _no_...

Tariaksuq is first. He is half-man half-caribou and a monster, but after that rusalka I don't know what beauty is anymore and his monstrousness conveys a certain style. I do not look directly at him and neither he at me, we both indulge in each other's faces through our peripheral vision alone.

"Consort Villager," he whispers, close enough that I alone can hear, "what are you doing here?"

Why bother lying?

"I have my reasons," I say.

"Do you indeed," he replies.

He kneels and kisses my knee. My fear is so great I hardly feel the ache anymore. I hardly feel the limb, the ground, weightless am I suspended in my terror.

What. If. He. Tells. On. Me.

The Whisperer would flay me.

A bunch of ishigait, little fairies, about a foot high, comely and sweet-tongued, they cluster around my legs and clutch at me. "Villager!" they whisper, "Villager, Villager!"

"Shhhh," I beg, managing to keep the tremble from my voice, "please, it's a secret mission! Nobody knows it's me!"

One of them taps her little button nose. "Okay," she says, and then they venture on.

Ijiraq in midmorph liquid face skinpeel muscle lumpish form pointed feature muzzle is next. He (she? they? _the Being_ ) washes in and out like waves, this Being that Being all Beings as the happenstance mirage floats over me. But the red eyes don't change, so I focus on these.

"Villager," they mumble through a mouth-being-not-mouth. And then they kiss my knee with their unlips.

Atshen is next. He is tall, terrifying and cruel, but he says nothing. But I can tell by his face he recognises me.

(if you meet him you are resigned to fight him - and you will lose for none have control over him - and he could hurt me so bad there would be nothing left for the Whisperer - but Atshen does not appear to wish a fight and moves along after he too has wounded me at the knee, small mercies small mercies)

Adlet, half-dog half-man. (Decently attractive despite that. Because of it? If rusalka was appealing - oh, I don't even know.) _They all know me!_

Torngarsuk next and this is the first time I've seen him properly. Formerly I thought he was a bear, or a one-armed man, or the divide between ice floes, or the space between sheets of snow, or any other myriad images that spurt to mind but as it turns out, none of them really look like him.

"What's up with you, Villager?" asks Torngarsuk. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"

"You're -" I can't describe it. "I've never, and you're -"

Torngarsuk waves me off. "Well, don't tell them about the hair."

A single Qallupilluk separated from her sisters is last. She wasn't at the fires before. She may or may not recognise me - I don't know - because she spends all her time her head bowed, tears streaming down her face, and she sobs onto my foot as she kisses my knee.

Then she wanders on.

 

...Have _you_ ever seen anybody crying and sobbing at a party? Can't have that.

So I leave to talk to her, because the guests are finished, the courtyard empty when -

"Ah, ah, ah. You've got one left," says a voice. Mellow, baritone, handsome.

I turn.

Not a demon - his eyes aren't red - he is lanky-limbed and haired, and heavily scarred. Brown hair. Green eyes. It's that one again, the nondemon nonman.

He looks like Lithuania. I don't know him.

And yet...

Maybe I do.

Because there's a shimmer of feeling around him that lets me know - this is one of my kind. Not my kind, as in my demons. No, my kind, as in a nation. Culture-peoples-land. Sometimes more of one than the other.

But only a shimmer. This one doesn't have any sort of sentiment lingering - but yet there is? - and yet there isn't -

He _was_ one of my kind, once.

Suddenly it all makes perfect sense.

"Kleckis," I say. "Y-your - Baubas, and Žiburinis - but not your -"

He sneers, "I don't remember giving _you_ permission to use that name."

For a moment we don't talk, and I overhear the Whisperer proclaiming the start of the festivities.

"But it'll have to do, because _someone took mine_ ," finishes Kleckis.

Petrified, I don't move or say a thing. I barely breathe.

Kleckis, if it is indeed him, draws nearer. He investigates me for an elastic moment and a chill washes over me in a splash of drained blood, I pale, I feel violated and betrayed, like my mask means nothing, my lies mean nothing, he can see through it all anyway. It is a struggle to hold his gaze and keep it without darting my eyes away self-conscious.

Finally he appears satisfied. "Good," he says. "I have unfinished business with that one, and I don't want interlopers."

Interlopers...? What does he mean...?

My confusion bafflement blank must register on my face, because he laughs. A joke. "He wishes you would, you know. He _really_ wishes. But you won't, and that's that. I wonder if it's because of that block you have."

Kleckis doesn't bow exactly, but he does bend to kiss my knee - after all, everybody must pay their respects, even superficially, to gain entrance. His lips press in hard, and a blister bursts. Something hot and wet runs down my naked shin.

"C'mon," he says. He stands and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. "We're missing the party."

It takes me a moment before I remember Qallupilluk. "Just a sec," I say, and leave Kleckis' side.

Qallupilluk is over by the May bowle wine, curled in on herself, a sack of emaciated bones wrapped in rough and poorly-treated animal skin, her hair heavy and stringy over her bony shoulders. She sobs into a paper napkin. You can smell her from feet away, tears like hotsprings, unusual sulphur aroma.

I don't know what to say so I sit with her voiceless for a moment.

Finally her shakes subside and she says, "It was my child. She gave me her child in exchange. She said cure my husband and you can have my child. So I did as she asked because I wanted her child."

"You ... wanted -"

"She was a beautiful baby girl, three weeks old, fat round cheeks, big brown eyes and downy black hair, I loved her, I loved her!"

"Loved her? I thought you _ate_ them," I blurt.

Qallupilluk sanglotte en misère colère. "You rude creature!" she cries, "you don't know anything about us! That was my child!"

I jigsaw what must have happened. "The woman reneged on the deal."

Qallupilluk sniffles wet. "She had some power. A wiseman, there was a tupilaq, they fought me off and banished me. _That was my child_ , you have to understand, you can't imagine losing such a part of you! Please, Villager," she begs, "it's like I have no heart."

I shake my head and say softly, "I can do nothing for you."

She sobs harder. "You never do, for our kind. You forget us in order to be British or French. Why should I have bothered even speaking about it, you ignore all of your sons and daughters who aren't ones you shared with your brothers. But you know something, they are not really your brothers - you're not really related to them."

"You're not related to that child you stole," I remind hotly.

"Does that make me love her less? She was _my_ daughter!"

A human girl can't live with a child-snatching monster... can she?

"I was invited. But I only came tonight because I thought - I thought you could help," Qallupilluk spits harsly, her face contorted in pain and cruelty. "More fool me. A pity, Villager."

And then she screams in my face, " _Maybe I'll tell the General who you are, if you don't help me!_ "

\--

" _Und wenn wir um den Gipfel ziehn - so streichet an dem Boden hin! Und deckt die Heide weit und breit, mit eurem Schwarm der Hexenheit!_ " cries Gilbert to eruptive, loud applause, his one-man Faust show momentarily finished. Successful party so far. Only a few have called into question why this strange white-haired man just so happens to have a practically encyclopaedic memory of Goethe. (Hey, you see it performed for a few centuries, you start to memorise your favourite bits.)

The rest are content to let all be explained by the magic of the night.

There must be over two hundred people here - what luck nobody's called the cops! - and someone brings him another beer and a few slices of grilled meat in a pita. God, he thinks, this is so awesome. There's nothing that can beat his high right now!

"Hey," says Ernst, "you ever find that friend of yours?"

Gil stops.

_Junker Voland kommt!_

"Shit," he says. "Okay, gimme a sec here." He inhales the pita and meat in a few careless bites, barely chewing, downs it with a few sips of the beer and abandons the rest of his drink on the ground. He could use some sobering up.

First he asks around. Many people are already intoxicated but not past the point of reason and a few even pitch in to help him search. But the search for a blonde, curly-haired man in glasses - more than one person at the party also fits that description - is fruitless and they give up soon.

He tries the dogs again. Nothing. Purzel tries to cajole him into playing keep-away with a stick. Lola is sound asleep.

He tries backtracking. Who saw him last? More like, who has been here the longest and remembers him? Matt has a tendency to disappear on people to start with. Gil checks the time; it's nearly one am. He lost Matt around, what would it have been, maybe eleven-thirty, quarter to midnight? Scores of people have come and gone in that time.

He asks around again. A few women say they saw him by the drinks table - yeah, him and everybody else, Gil thinks, besides that's where he found Matt's jacket. This tells him nothing he doesn't already know.

"He was only drinking the maibowle," one woman - her name is Sabine - jokes. "Wasn't sure if he could take it, but he seemed okay."

"It should be fine," says Gil, "it's not the first time in his life he's had wine!"

"It is pretty gross stuff," her friend jokes. "Nobody else can drink more than a cupful. Maybe he got ill on it."

"But the sign said no more than one glass," Sabine reminds her friend. "Because of the - you know."

Yeah, Gil noticed that too - funny little aftertaste. What had Ernst put in that stuff anyway?

Gil hadn't been drinking it besides a commemorative sip - more for ritual than anything else. He had then proceeded to ignore it in favour of the beer (his favourite!). It's only now that he turns to the little sign next to the bowl that says, _witches' brew! drinker beware: there's more than meets the eye! No more than one glass is needed to properly celebrate._

That ... doesn't sound so good.

Moreover, the sign's in German.

Which Mattie doesn't read too well.

"Ernst," Gil says slowly, "what exactly did you put in there?"

Ernst shrugs. "I took some liberties. This and that, a little strawberry juice, a little woodruff, an orange slice or nine, a little LSD, two bottles of wine...sprinkle of salt, half kilo mixed colour currants, mineral water - the usual."

Gil's heart sinks. "You're joking."

"That's why I put the sign! No more than one glass. It wasn't that much, and I told a few, told them to spread the word around -" Ernst suddenly seems to realise what has occurred. "Nobody told your friend, did they."

"My god," Gil's heart is picking up the pace now. "My god, oh my god, no, _Mattiiiee..._ "

"How much did he have?"

"I- I- I don't know!" Gil's voice is high and taut.

"It was at least more than a cup," Sabine warns.

"Okay, there wasn't _that_ much in it," Ernst says. "Maybe three cups before, y'know, you really feel it."

"Suppose his tolerance isn't so good?" asks Sabine's friend. "Has he ever tripped before?"

Gil tries to think logically. On one hand, Matthew seems so innocent, so young and fresh-faced. On the other hand, he _is_ friends with the Netherlands. That has to count for something.

Still, he's quite small!

But... not that small - Gilbert thinks of the waistcoat he tried on. No, Matt didn't look scrawny at all...perhaps a bit stylishly handsome, svelte and trim, but -

Oh, to hell with this train of thought! He's only making himself feel worse!

Given what Matt was saying to him earlier - nonsense gibberish about an eye and demons - it fits the symptoms of a good, solid trip.

"We'll need flashlights," Gil decides, as well as a handful of prayers and his old luck that Matt isn't drowned face down in a puddle. How will he explain that to his human friends and coworkers?

Ernst returns from his car parked nearby with an emergency first aid kit. "In here," he says, and pulls out two decent flashlights for ordinary use, but nothing of worth for searching a forest as big in a night as dark as these. He hands one to Sabine. "Uh-uh," Gil says, "you're the one who spiked the punch, you help me find Matt."

"But I -" Whatever Ernst was about to say is cut off with a pointed glare from Gilbert. Gilbert is ordinarily jocular, which he himself is fully aware, and his sudden sobering seriousness has put everybody who knows him a little on edge.

The two of them set out with the dogs, just in case they too get lost and wander around until well after the bonfires have died, calling Matt's name periodically and checking the ground for anybody.

Matt couldn't've climbed a tree in his state, could he? Gil certainly hopes not, they have enough ground to cover as it is.

"How do you know this guy, anyway?" asks Ernst.

"Friend from work," says Gil. It's not entirely untrue.

"He's not German."

"So?"

"So, don't you work at the government?"

"International affairs. Him as well, for the Canadians. That's how we met."

Ernst is silent a few moments. "You don't get to see him often, I take it. Not as often as you'd like."

That's true. "What of it?"

"Ah, I'm sorry, is all. If I'd known, I thought you were just friends, I didn't realise he was so important to you. And to be responsible for something like this - I should have at least introduced myself properly."

Gilbert stops.

"To - your boyfriend. Well, isn't he?"

Gilbert _knows_ he's blushing, he can feel the warmth creep up his neck to his ears, and on its heels there is a tingling chill, the feeling one gets when one's secrets have been utterly exposed.

It is with regret that he manages, barely, to say, "He isn't my boyfriend. We're not like that."

Ernst is a good enough friend that he picks up on the tone of voice - _but I really wish we were_ \- and an even better friend not to comment on it.

They search for another two hours.

"I'm sorry," says Ernst. "This is all my fault."

"No, I shouldn't have just abandoned him - he's _my_ friend." And what's more, Matthew only came because Gil had cajoled him into it. This is all _Gilbert's_ fault.

"I think the party's winding down," replies Ernst. "Should we retire? Try again tomorrow? We'll have better luck in daylight. At least it isn't so cold he'll freeze. One night in a small forest, it won't kill him."

Even if it did, Matthew - _Canada_ \- would be fine. "You go back if you want," says Gil, handing Ernst his housekeys. "Take the dogs. I might stay up some more."

"How much longer?"

 _As long as it takes._ He shrugs.

"If you're sure," Ernst says.

He's sure. He's too guilty to feel like sleeping in a real bed when it's his fault Matthew is out here.

Gilbert hears Ernst's footsteps walking away. When the sound has faded to nothing at all, and all he hears is the wind through the empty branches of trees, he sits down heavily on the wet grass and curses himself for his stupidity and irresponsibility for another hour, until his eyelids close under their own weary weight and he falls asleep, exhausted.

Alone, with Matt nowhere around.

\--

The party brightlight lifesource demondance has come to its apex now. The Winter Whisperer pulls me aside. "Consort," he says, "as you can see, it has been another successful evening." He passes a goblet of wineblood to me.

I nod and take a deep sip. It is not wine. I quaff deeper still and them hand it back.

"As thanks, your wish?"

My wish?

Of course! Above all, how had I forgotten?

How generous the Winter Whisperer is...

"I, uh," I begin eloquently.

What do I wish for?

 _Why did you come? For nothing, for no one?_ reminds Kleckis, _go on, ask him._

I came... in Russia's stead. For Russia's sake.

There's something he needs help with, something he asked me for - so long ago, what was it?

The memory slurries gently in my mind through fog, like sediment dredged up from the bottom of the lake, stirring, slowly, as I gather my thoughts -

"I wish," I begin - _for Russia to be free, for Russia to be sane, for Russia to be made well-governed and incorruptible and as safe as I am, or even more -_

 _Ask him!_ urge-murmurs Kleckis, now at my shoulder.

" - for Qallupilluk to have her child back."

 

"What," Kleckis asks flatly.

_What?!!?_

No!!!

That's not what I thought, that's not what I said!

I reach out in front of me to grab at the words as they fly from my mouth, unbidden and unwanted, as they hover in front of me in the timestream, but against my volition they slip through my fingers and before I know it -

\- that _is_ what I've said.

And the words speed away from me in the rapids of past.

"Admirable," says the Winter Whisperer, dispassion uncare. "Ordinarily you think only of yourself, my cold little son. Perhaps you are learning from your friends after all." Without another word, in a puff of smoke he has returned to his form as a force of nature and dissipates off.

"I can't believe you did that. I _can't believe_ you _did_ that!" exclaims Kleckis. "He's going to know who you are for sure."

"So be it," I say in shock, "it's done now."

"What were you thinking?! All this for nothing?"

I don't reply. It's not for nothing, Qallupilluk will be happy although that girl's mother won't - and indeed, I believe her, she would have told the Whisperer if I hadn't done what I'd done, anyway. This way, at least one of us gets what we want.

Kleckis comes closer. He studies me again, although this time less cruelly and more pitifully. "Someone _did_ something to you," he decides at last. "You're one of those, those beings who believe it's their duty to help others, who crave being needed, who enjoy the giving a bit too much for it to be truly selfless. Aren't you."

Again, I don't reply. In the end, he isn't wrong.

"People will take advantage of you, for it," he warns.

"I can stand my ground," I say.

"You'll have to," replies Kleckis. "Let's watch you do it, then, let's see if you can. Here he comes back. He doesn't look happy."

" _Villager!_ " booms the Whisperer, and then the smoke wreathes itself into a shape as de nouveau il se recorps. His eyes are red ruby livid, his face drawn wrinkled hatred. He's not happy with me. "Nobody invited you!"

"Am I not also your relation?" I demand.

He roars and the chill wind blows smacks me in the face, eats through my flesh and grabs me by the bones as it throws me to the ground. " _Insolence!_ " he shrieks. "I ought to flay you alive where you sit. I would have given you another wish but for your treachery!"

I cover my face with my arms, ready for a blow that doesn't come. When I peek through, the Whisperer is gone and only Kleckis remains. He smiles, almost genuine.

"He's kinder than he once was," Kleckis notes. He extends a hand and pulls me to my feet. " _I_ would've taught you a proper lesson."

"I have to return to the party," I say.

"What party?"

I look behind me.

There's nothing.

Kleckis and I are standing on the side of a mountain in a clearing, surrounded by the forest. Alone. It's pitchblack with the only light I can see from the stars, twinkling above me, green blue red orange yellow...

White.

A wolf howls. Crickets chirp.

"The..." the party... with the Whisperer ... but -

"You're right," Kleckis interrupts my thoughts. "You do have to return to the party... but not this one. Come on, I'll take you."

The party ... _Gil's_ party -

Oh my god, I told him he was a demon and then I disappeared and flew away to the Brocken mountain, that's three hours' drive from here, he doesn't even know where I am, _I_ don't even know where I am, what am I going to do?!?

"Relax," says Kleckis. "It's clear _he_ won't reward your generosity, but I might be inclined." He takes my hand in both of his. "After all, you came here to help little Rus', the Muscovy child, didn't you? He keeps asking you for it. Not that _I_ think he deserves it. But you can't return ... shall we say ... _empty-handed._ "

"I don't understand," I tell him.

"And I don't think it's fair that you yourself can't access it. You should be able to turn it on and off as you want. I can fix that, but I need a sacrifice," Kleckis says gently. "Do you accept?"

Do I have a choice? I have to board a flight to Indonesia in the morning, I have meetings, I have to be mundane and boring and bureaucreative with my helpings of Russia because I can't draw attention to him and his problems, not if I want to throw our bosses - and my brother - off the scent of trouble brewing.

And I don't know how to get back to Berlin.

"Okay," I say.

Kleckis grins.

A sick snap _crunch_ , and then -

I begin to scream.

\- instant mindnumbing burning _pain!!_

I pull my hand back to find my index finger and thumb are the only fingers that remain on it. The other bloody three, Kleckis holds in his right hand. They surge with a pearly light for a moment as he closes his eyes, but I can barely focus from the pain.

"This will hurt even more," intones Kleckis in a voice mystical and deeper than his own, as he opens his eyes glowing green and reaches with his left hand -

\- into my chest.

My entire body erupts into firehot pain as Kleckis does - _something_ , I'm not sure what - but I feel every inch of him as he penetrates, tinkering inside me, slipping inside my chest cavity through a space not visible, less into my body and more into my soul, if I can hope that a being like me even has one - twiddling this and twinging that, every single motion causes me indescribable breath-stealing agony, dragging cutting jagged edges over fragile muscles. If a soul bleeds, it bleeds like this, unscabbable, freely, hemorrhaging me from the within without until I give a final tremulous gasp, I can't take any more -

_"Bēgaīs, pikulke!"_

and I faint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's completely okay if all of that made 0 sense, by the way.
> 
> Translations:  
> Und wenn wir um den Gipfel ziehn / So streichet an dem Boden hin / Und deckt die Heide weit und breit / Mit eurem Schwarm der Hexenheit: And when the topmost peak we round / Then alight ye on the ground / The heath's wide regions cover ye / With your mad swarms of witchery! (From Faust, 1st Part, Walpurgis night. Many thanks to [Proj. Gutenberg](http://www.gutenberg.org/) for easy access to both German and English language versions.)  
> [Junker](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Junker) [Voland](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Woland) kommt!: Messire Woland comes! (Also from Faust.)  
> Bēgaīs, pikulke!: Run, hellion! (My attempt at reconstructing Old Prussian; might have errors.)  
> Matt's French is about as incomprehensible as his English so I've left this as a bilingual bonus. If you're still curious about it (or about anything) come [ask me](http://sarageneris.tumblr.com/ask)!


	8. Chapter 5 ⅔

5 ⅔. _(meanwhile, in moscow)_

In one of his (increasingly rarer) moments of lucidity, Russia finds himself slouching in the chair outside the meeting room, feeling rather like a misbehaving child sent to detention.

He barely knows how he got there but he has a sneaking suspicion that he already knows what the meeting is about. He has known from the moment he received Petrova's email - he's crazy, not dumb. They lose sight of him, for five minutes - five fucking minutes! That was it - he spends time alone in a small box with Canada, and Petrova freaks out. Must be a turncoat. Must be sharing secrets.

Sharing something, at any rate.

His true actions in the elevator were, in retrospect, the only thing he could have done. And one of his wiser decisions for himself, though it could ultimately sour diplomatic relations with a very strong ally. He hopes Canada will understand.

But thinking of Canada puts a strange feeling in his stomach, somewhere between anxiety-driven nausea and helpless shame. This is probably what guilt is. So he forcibly removes Canada from his thoughts for now.

Russia is not entirely sure he'll be able to fully convince them that nothing happened, though. In order to throw them off completely, he's got to have something watertight. Hm, he could -

" _Ivan!_ " Petrova's voice calls sharply, and he straightens immediately, his spine snapping up so fast he hears one of the vertebra crack. She is walking up to him in the halls, and though she is wearing high heeled shoes, they don't click on the floors. She must have had them specially made, or otherwise altered, for that. Everyone's shoes click on these floors. As she walks past him, she gestures with her hand (how _insulting_ , as though this land and this building and this meeting room are not _his_ ), and he rises to follow her into the meeting room.

Petrova sits him down. Borovsky is already present and seated with his laptop open in front of him. The table is so small it only accommodates three people so they are at the vertices of a triangle. Russia definitely feels like a misbehaving child now.

"You know why we're meeting today," she says tightly, with clipped syllables. Standard Petrova-speak for 'I would rather skin animals than be here right now'. That makes two of us, Russia thinks dully.

Borovsky gives her a silencing look and begins the conversation. "We are not accusing you of anything, but you must understand how this all looks from our point of view. One minute, you're right behind us, next minute, you're disappearing in an elevator with the Canadian representative."

"An elevator that mysteriously gets stopped halfway," Petrova adds, her tone of voice pretty pissed.

"So you see that we have our suspicions -"

"- and despite receiving a dispatch call, you - you, I'm told, not the Canadian! - tell them it's alright and you are both fine -"

"- because quite frankly it does look incriminating -"

"- instead of 'yes please help get me out of here now' - what the devil did you tell him?!" Petrova shrieks, slamming her hands down on the table as she stands to tower over him, a feat that is not possible for most humans (Petrova is an especially tall human).

"We are not saying you told him anything," Borovsky murmurs thoughtfully. "But," and here he taps the laptop, "I have obtained a copy of the video feed."

Russia’s eyes go wide.

Both of them notice.

Petrova points a finger in his face as she crows, "A- _HA!_ I knew it, you cutthroat coward of a sneak!"

Borovsky is more quiet in his displeasure. "If, Vanya, you've something to tell us, now's the time to do it."

Russia, of course, knows what's on that video. He knows it isn't something he'd like his bosses to see. It won't get him executed, it won't get him sent to the gulags,  it won't even get him fired - not in this day and age - but it will certainly make him blush and squirm.

But... on the other hand, it will also make Borovsky and Petrova blush and squirm. Especially Petrova, who he knows sincerely wishes she could change the criterion for firing people over such a thing.

And perhaps he can use this to spin this away from what it truly was, which was an exchange of information (the bodily fluids were secondary!). In fact this was his entire reason for having done ... what he did ... in the elevator. With Canada. _To_ Canada? Canada had been sort of willing. Anyway, Russia told himself he'd stop thinking about Canada already.

"I did not say anything to him," Russia stresses, and this is an outright lie. "I am willing to testify to that," another outright lie, "but ... if you truly want to know what happened in the elevator, well... you may ..." he makes sure to pause strategically here so they'll be that much more inclined to watch it - "but I would greatly prefer it if you did not."

Once they watch it they won't make him testify to fucking _anything_.

Petrova narrows her eyes at Ivan. Without even looking at Borovsky she orders him, "Play it."

Borovsky clicks something on the laptop and spins it around to face Russia.

And so, Russia is treated to a different angle of himself - and goodness, but that particular sweater does not do anything good for his figure. He watches as his image looks around, his eyes furtive and anxious, checking for - ah, there, he makes full eye contact with the camera. Seen. Russia himself recognises the look in his own eyes in the video feed - a quick, resourceful calculation - and hopes that neither Borovsky nor Petrova can pick it out.

If they do, he'll claim he was just weighing the odds that he'd get caught with how horny he was. And he'll use that expression, too. It'll make Petrova stumble over her words like a field in Chechnya.

As for now, he keeps his face firm, fixed and frozen while he watches. He will not betray anything if he can help it. Russia forces himself to keep watching despite how incredibly mortifying this is to be viewing with one's bosses. If he wants an alibi, he's got to figure out what kind of evidence they have over him first. Hopefully, this is the fullest extent of it, because if they've worked out the letters - he doesn't even want to think of it. (But they can't have. An English poem? They'd suspect him of Pushkin first. Especially if he plays up his little lovesickness.)

Russia-in-the-movie reacts and grabs the other occupant of the elevator - Canada - by his wrinkled shirt collar and shoves him hard up against the wall. Russia’s body follows through and presses the two of them together - Russia-in-reality flushes.

The image of Canada's body, what isn't blocked by Russia's larger figure, can be seen in full, face-on, though at a downward angle - his expression, his figure, his mouth. Russia, on the hand, is only seen from behind - exactly as he had calculated. Canada's eyes are wide and his hands grapple in a flustered sort of panicky way at Ivan's shoulders while Russia's mouth is busy at the other's throat. He can see the part when he bit down and sucked hard; Canada's hands freeze and grip the overcoat, and his mouth falls open in a gasp that is so burned into his mind Russia thinks he can still hear it, despite the obvious lack of audio feed. He watches the words, 'What are you doing' form on Canada's lips.

He can also see the part where he slams his fist into the wall and tells Canada to watch very carefully what he says, because lips can be read, because on the video, Canada shuts his mouth and bites his lip to remain quiet. Canada ... is an excellent actor. It isn't at all apparent that they are having a conversation. The only thing that is apparent is how much Canada is enjoying this.

...Rather, how much he _seems_ to enjoy it. It was probably a big surprise to him then, so from this, Russia judges Canada's reaction time is quick indeed. Canada on film is arching his back, allowing easy access to the fastenings on his trousers, then grinding himself upwards into Russia’s body - Russia remembers this is actually into his hand, remembers the way Canada thrust up into his grip -

Russia realises he's staring very, very intently at the screen with warm cheeks and wide eyes.

It's now that he spares a glance for Borovsky and Petrova. Petrova's mouth is gaping open, and she's looking at the laptop in stunned silence. Borovsky is slightly less aghast, and more polite, but the look in his eyes tells Russia that this was the last thing the prime minister expected.

"Seen enough?" he asks them, breaking the silence, and both Borovsky and Petrova sort of jolt, like his voice has broken a spell.

Borovsky blinks. "This is indeed an interesting turn of events, Mister Braginsky," and Borovsky's definitely at least a bit ticked off, for gone are the days when they would call him that and mean it. Petrova and Borovsky, naturally, insisted on Petrova and Borovsky, so Russia retaliated by having them call him _Braginsky_. This lasted for about five years until at some point he realised they'd stopped and started calling him Ivan instead, all without his notice. Occasionally Borovsky even dares to call him _Vanya_ , and this makes Ivan's skin crawl. Only people very, very close to him should have that right. Only his sisters.

Borovsky closes the laptop shut with a sharp click. The look in his eyes is something like a disapproving parent. He relaxes in his chair, giving a false pretense of casualness and frankness, and clasps his hands loosely together. He looks over to Petrova as though seeking moral assistance, but Petrova is silent. Stonily she shakes her head and makes a, 'no, after you' gesture. "Is," Borovsky begins, and thinks better of it, and then seems to make up his mind and continues again. "Is this some kind of new international relations thing that we have missed the memo on?" he asks.

"No - I just -"

"You're not going to be sleeping around with America next, are you?" Petrova snaps icily.

"N-oh god, no, no no. Very much no -"

"Because I hear America looks just the same, and one easily gets the two confused -"

"Why don't let's start at the beginning," Borovsky begins, so calm and soothing that it's patronising. Evidently they have resumed their good cop bad cop roles despite the brief blow in composure. "When did this begin?"

"This?" Russia asks, playing dumb, hoping they'll divulge exactly what it is they want to know about, so that he can tell them precisely that and not a fact more. Because the less he says, the better.

"Yes, this... dalliance, if you will." At Ivan's confused blink Borovsky clarifies, "Or are you just sleeping with him?"

"I -" stammers Russia - he's very good at pretending to be lost for words - "I don't, I mean we've only just, we haven't really put a term on it -"

"Was it the letters?" Petrova sneers.

"No, well not really, although it -"

"The fucking tax return, then!" she cries, with significant agitation.

"Yes okay! So I took that as an excuse to write him. Of course there are no errors on Ukraine's Russian forms. I knew that. I admit it, I'm not _proud_ , I just thought perhaps -"

"Perhaps you'd accidentally slip a little information his way in order to sweeten the deal?"

"What?! No!" Yes. Time to switch gears, have to throw her off the scent. Petrova is an old-fashioned sort. Better to play that card. "It wasn't like that at all! You, you've seen him - he's, ah, he's _good-looking_ -" he admits sheepishly, acting coy and nervous like the caught-in-flagrante-delicto lover he's playing.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Petrova rolls her eyes and flounces back in the chair. "We're trying to rebuild a goddamn superpower here and the national representative is fucking _gay_ with a fucking hard-on for America's girly kid brother."

Yes, bait taken!

"It's fine, I'll just do super extra manly things in the media to compensate. Take pictures wrestling bears or something. It'll even itself out."

Leave it to Borovsky to think of the PR angle.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with an alliance of this sort," Borovsky says in a grandfatherly and exceedingly supercilious tone. Russia swears, if they give him the sex talk he will _flip this table_. "Better it's Canada and not America, to be honest."

"He is sleeping with the enemy!"

"There was no sleeping! Just one time in the elevator!"

"Not quite. Canada has the beginnings of what could be socialism. There is a lot of governmental control. If ...pushed sufficiently, that could be enhanced. It is a much more successful prospect than dating America."

"I'm not dating him!"

"Why couldn't you have just dated Belarus? She's a nice girl. She's a _girl_. And she even likes you!"

"She likes me too damn much -"

"Besides I think it's better this way, yes? A more direct alliance. Canada shall be very easy to sway with very little influence. You _are_ the dominant one, right Vanya?"

"What! -" oh now, really -

"Of course he is! He is, isn't he? Well you'd better make sure you are. We need Russia strong and solid, and - and virile, not, not some effeminate - timid - shy sissy -"

"Both of you, shut up and listen to me!" Russia shouts. Petrova and Borovsky stop talking, though to say they calm down would be downright untrue. Petrova has broken a blood vessel in her right eye and Borovsky is impatiently drumming his fingers on the desk. It's times like these that Russia wishes the creepy smile worked on humans - most particularly his own humans. But it doesn't, so he just tries the simple route.

"It does not - I repeat, not - make me any less masculine to be dating another nation -"

"Then you are dating him!" Borovsky muses.

" _Silence!_ " Borovsky zips it. "Dating, sleeping with, being complicated with, whatever we ... are doing with each other - whatever that is, it doesn't make me - or Canada for that matter! - less masculine. I will remind you both that most national representatives are male to begin with. That doesn't leave a lot of choice. Things are messy with Hungary, Belarus and Ukraine are both related to me -"

"That's never stopped your kind before," Petrova says archly, and Russia really doesn't like the nasty way she says _your kind_.

"I said silence and I meant it," Russia hisses. "Now, you will leave Canada and I - and whatever it is we choose to pursue - alone, perfectly alone. Unless you both would prefer to keep interfering in my sex life?"

Both Petrova and Borovsky remain mute. Borovsky has a look on his face, though, the kind that says, 'oh I'll be quiet now, but expect this topic to come up again'. As long as they don't make him wear a wire during his interactions with Canada or put hidden cameras in the rooms, Russia doesn't really care.

"Very well," Russia states, "then I believe this terminates the meeting."

Petrova collects herself and leaves very quickly. Borovsky is slower, shuffling out of the room. Russia realises he will probably not hear the end of this for some time, but all the same he relaxes a bit.

It doesn't seem Borovsky or Petrova suspect him of seeking outside help from Canada. It appears they trust that he isn't talking to Canada about anything. That is, anything other than - well. Russia blushes.

So, really, as humiliating as that was... everything went better than expected.

Now, to keep everybody thinking that it’s all about sex.

 _Everybody_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borovsky and Petrova are not intended to portray any particular Real Life people, although they might certainly resemble prototypical homophobic politicians toeing party lines.


	9. Chapter 6

6\. _(aftermath of apec conference; a quick trip to italy)_

Colin frogmarches me away like a criminal and shoves me into a mostly empty corridor. It should be illegal to treat one's country like this.

" _You_ ," he says, pointing a fat finger in my face, "have some serious explaining to do. Now _I'm_ going to go be responsible and clean up after whatever you just did -" resist the urge to smirk, resist it... - "so I will send for you when I'm ready. If you don't come when called, I am not afraid to take action."

"What," I spit, "what could you possibly do? You can't fire me!"

"Maybe not, but I have action plans that don't favour the country." Colin storms off in a huff.

I roll my eyes at his back. I'm not convinced he's got anything - this posturing reminds me of his campaign trail. 'I'll do this and that and the other' - yeah, sure you will, buddy.

Although the way he's framed it makes me wonder... _I have action plans that don't favour the country_.

Is that what Russia's bosses are doing?

When I get back to my hotel room, I just flop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. I wasn't planning on checking my phone or mail but I lose all track of time and only pick it up when it buzzes.

I've missed two texts. The first is an angry one from Colin. _Come to 502 when you get this straightaway,_ it reads, dated five minutes ago.

The second is also Colin and also angry. _Just spoke to the Russians. You need to coordinate these things with me and keep me in the loop. Don't you know how it looks when they ask 'do you know where your nation is' and I can't give a conclusive answer? 502, NOW._

I wonder what he means by _these things_... I expect Russia's crazy, paranoid bosses will find some way to intimidate or bribe a copy of the elevator feed out of the hotel staff. But have they really got it already? I wonder if they'll share what they know about the relationship between us with Colin, or whether they think it's something they can use against us. I'd much rather the former, but my hopes are only so high.

Furthermore, I'm reluctant to kowtow to Colin's personal demands, because from the sounds of it, he's in full prick mode now, but this has to be done and it might as well be done sooner than later, so that my plane ride is silent.

So it's with a grimace that I knock at his door ten minutes later.

Colin lets me have it the second I'm inside and the door has shut. "Where the hell were you yesterday? You have obligations and responsibilities and my job doesn't entail making sure you meet your appointments! I am not your administrative assistant, Matthew!"

"Something came up, I'm sorry," I say sheepishly. "I had to be elsewhere. I tried to make the flight and we missed it. It's my fault, really."

"Where _were_ you?"

Sometimes the truth is best. That, and I can't think up a convincing enough lie. "In Germany."

"Germany!? The hell were you doing there?"

(I wish I could remember.) "It was a personal favour to a friend," I say, hoping he'll leave it at that, because _personal_. "It wasn't official."

"Who do you know who's in Germany?"

"Prussia, actually -"

Colin is so surprised he swallows air and erupts in a small fit of coughs. When he's through he says, "Don't be ridiculous, Prussia doesn't exist!"

"He sure as hell does to my kind," I snap. For the first time in a long time Colin looks taken aback and genuinely shocked. "I'm sorry," I say more calmly, "no matter who I was with or what I was doing, or where I was doing it, I shouldn't've been late. And it's not Prussia's fault, it's mine. You're right."

I am sorry for being so late to an event I declared my full intention to attend with my usual punctuality. (Just not all that sorry to Colin.)

Still, my apology goes a long way and Colin runs his fingers through what remains of his hair and heaves a sigh, content to leave this bone for now. That, of course, means he takes up a new one. "And what was with the business with Russia!" he cries.

"What did Petrova tell you about it?" I ask first.

"Haven't had the chance to talk to her about it, she won't even _see_ me. You explain what happened."

"I'm -" I sigh. "I had to... Speak to him about something. Privately." That's right, keep it nice and vague.

"Speak to him?" he thunders. "Is that what we're calling it these days? When you abduct someone in an elevator? You can speak to him all you want during work, when I'm there and Petrova and Borovsky are there since god knows when they're not they raise hell. What, are you buddy-buddy with him, too?"

"I know what I'm doing," I tell him. I'm not fond of his 'children need to be watched' attitude. "I needed to speak with him. That's all you need to know."

"This isn't just the kid next door," Colin complains.

"Actually," I remind him acidly, "geographically speaking that's exactly who he is to me. And if Petrova and Borovsky don't like that, then they picked the wrong nation to be leaders of. The same goes for you!"

And I walk right out of his hotel room because frankly I'm a little high strung right now!

So nobody's told him yet. That's bad, but at least now I know who I can't trust.

Russia - who's slowly taking up residence in my head more as _Ivan_ than anything else, and that's dangerous - just cornered me in an elevator. And kissed me. And made out with me and gave me a handjob _what is going on with the universe_.

I grok that it's a fantastic excuse. It really is. And I'm pretty sure we were convincing. But parts of me can't help feeling that parts of Ivan were entirely too into the role. I can still feel the burn where I felt him on my thigh. It warms my cheeks and my heart races.

I guess I should be glad, he obviously finds me attractive. That's a compliment. And I don't exactly get the amount of action I'd like. I remember complaining about that a little while ago. Well, be careful what you wish for!

Something about it all strikes me as wrong, though. I think it's because I feel a little used.

Which implies I want Ivan to be doing these things of his own volition. Which isn't the case!

I try without much success to put it out of my mind for the evening, and for the flight back from Jakarta. But try as I might I find myself dwelling on things that make me entirely too uncomfortable, like the heat of his body and the taste of his lips.

(How the holy maple am I going to be able to look his sister in the eye?)

\--

One boring, lonely flight back home (Colin booked the seat next to me, but resolutely did anything to avoid conversation for the whole twelve hours) later, and a day of recovering from jet lag (and maybe still hangover - and shock), I get to my office late in the day on the 5th to find a bunch of messages waiting for me. A lot of them are from Colin, a couple from Petrova and Borovsky, a few from Al, one from Gil checking in on me.

So I do the smart thing and ditch my desk for fifteen minutes while I check in with Kuma-thingamajig. My sincere hope is that Colin comes by to see where I am and finds my phone on my keyboard with me nowhere around. It pisses him off so much when I do that.

But I notice out of the corner of my eye that one of them is from Ivan from yesterday night, and... I can't resist. That one, I'll read now.

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 4, 22:59**  
 **Subject: Conclusion to APEC activities**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

So **they** have gotten back to me in regards to what happened at APEC which, please, for my sensibility's sake, we need not discuss in further detail. I **think** I've been permitted the relationship. I find it irksome - **we're** not teenagers - and I suspect you feel the same in regards to the surveillance. At least you do not need permission when **dating** \- I am quite incensed. But anyway, I will see what can be done of that, because the walls may have eyes and ears but not a sense of propriety, apparently. All we require is some privacy during certain moments, do you think that is too much?

(Unless you prefer the exhibitionism? I myself would be open to it!)

\--

He's using the code. ...Certain moments. _Exhibitionism!_ I blush bright red. Honestly!

Well, that explains a few things, but it's time to go see Lisa before Colin finds me first.

"Thank you so much for looking after Kuma-thingit this weekend," I say, when I find Lisa in her cubicle, busy reading a novel, not working, and not making any attempt to hide it. (We've tried to tell Lisa these things are frowned upon and it never does any good. In Lisa's case, her moments of usefulness, despite being far fewer in number, ultimately outweigh her moments of extreme laziness, which for Lisa is kind of a constant.) Her left hand is on the book's spine, facing me, and something bright flashes into my eye. "I really appreciate it. I hope he didn't give you any trouble?"

The bear is on the floor nearby her desk, chewing a squeaky toy. (That's a brilliant idea. I don't know why I never thought of squeaky toys.) When he spots me he sits up and slowly pads his way over to sniff at my ankles. My trousers probably smell a little strange - bought in Germany, wandered around in the streets of Indonesia - plenty of smells the average polar bear nose doesn't find in Canada.

Kuma-critter seems pretty happy. He also seems well-fed. Very well-fed. Suspiciously well-fed. I hope he didn't eat Lisa out of house and home; I really need to speak to Colin about promoting her to RA-3. Even if she reads fiction during work hours.

"Nah, no trouble at all," Lisa replies, perching her chin on her left hand awkwardly, showing off the knuckles. "Good meeting?"

"It was okay," I reply, shrugging. "Not much happened."

"I hear Colin got pretty ticked," she says, and studies her nails from above and the side, the back of her hand facing me.

"Yeah, well. That's Tuesdays for you, eh?"

"Mmm. I think he wants a word. I told him you'd be jetlaggy for a few but he didn't really buy it."

That explains some of the newer messages. "Thanks for trying."

"Yeah. Anyway," she says casually, twirling her hair around her fingers. "Do you ... notice anything?"

Shit. "Uh." I really hate this game. France plays it all the time.

"Anything different?"

"Did... you dye your hair? It looks lighter. Pretty sweet."

Lisa tuts. "Matthew, my hair has always been this colour. You can't dye it without bleaching the crap out of it first. I might as well just douse it in chemicals. No, you idiot, I mean, do you _notice anything?_ " And she wiggles the fingers on her left hand teasingly, which throws another painfully bright light into my eye as the afternoon sun catches on something.

"Your ring is like a mirror you can wear on your finger?" Her _ring_ \- "Oh, I get it." Lisa positively beams when I figure it out. "I guess congratulations are in order."

"I should be thanking your bear," she laughs, admiring the engagement ring. "He rifled through Sam's stuff, chewed a bunch of it, ate the ring, then spat it out later at the dinner table. One of the best proposals in the history of proposals. Sam wanted to keep him."

"You're really dumb," Kuma tells me helpfully from the ground, tugging on my pant leg. Lisa giggles.

I remind him on our way out of Lisa's office, if he wants to continue being fed - with food, and not diamonds - that he'll keep such helpful comments to himself.

But eventually I have to face the music and return with reluctance to my electronic leashes. At least I have the company of Kuma-thing.

The first message is from Al and reads _Hey Mattie, give me a call when you get this. Gotta talk to you about a thing. Thanks, ttyl bro_ which is properly vague enough that I have the sneaking suspicion Alfred already knows there's something between Russia and me.

There's a few from Colin alone. _When you get into work check in with me, you need a game plan about how we're going to approach this_. And then, _Swung by your office, you were not there, msg me when you get this_ and also later, _I have a meeting now, how is 2pm for you at the Timmies' downstairs_ , and then later still _Where are you it is 2:15_.

I roll my eyes. If Colin would do himself the favour of inquiring after my whereabouts in a manner that didn't make me sound like a bratty child, maybe I'd let him know where the hell I was. Until he figures that out, we'll play these games.

"Ignore him," says Kuma.

"I fully intend to," I reply.

There's one each from Petrova and Borovsky that I hadn't checked before I left Indonesia, and one each that came in more recently. Petrova's first is all in caps and threatens to have my head on a platter, not that that will stop someone like me permanently, which is more the reason to season my face with garlic. Borovsky is a little less vocal about it but says about the same sorts of things: _leave our representative alone if you know what's good for you, this is getting out of hand_. Mildly amusing. I would like to delete them out of sheer stubbornness but I ought to keep a paper trail.

During the silent block in the Russian email timestamps, Al sent me three emails and Gil sent one, all of them saying _Hey are you back home yet call me_ , but nothing more than that.

The two more from Borovsky and Petrova say I can disregard their previous emails. And Petrova includes a postscript saying 'but don't push your luck, we're watching you'. (Delightful. I'm pretty sure that's not something they should be able to do, and it's a possibility the bark is worse than the bite, and there's no real strength behind a threat like that, but nevertheless I make a mental note to begin surrounding myself with people at work who I trust fully and who have never ever been near the Russian border.)

This says to me they've definitely had a chance to a) see the video feed, and b) talk to Russia about said video feed, because as Russia said in his message: _they think we're dating_.

I ignore Petrova, Borovsky, Colin, and for the moment both Al and Gil, in favour of composing a reply to Russia, which I'll send out later tonight so that the timestamp reflects the code.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 5, 00:50 AM**  
 **Subject: Re: Conclusion to APEC activities**

I am generally a pretty private person. I understand your people like to keep tabs on you but I think for myself that's a bit much and the last thing I want to worry about when I'm with you is our chaperones. I'm sorry, I'm not **really** into that.

Which reminds me, what are you doing next month? Unless this changes things, I believe I have a score to settle.

\--

Simple, but I'm hoping it'll fish out more information about what precisely this means for our situation. In the meantime, I suppose I've postponed this enough, and with more dread than I usually have, I pick up the phone and dial my brother.

He answers after a single ring. "Yo, talk to me."

"Uh, h-hey, Al, it's - it's Matt. You, uh. You wanted me to call you?"

"Oh! Yeah... yeah. Hey, bro. So, about that. Listen. Are you gonna be around my neck of the woods in the next little while, maybe this weekend? I know, short notice. But I can come up if you want instead."

"Um. Uh, that. Depends. Do you mean in at my house in New York, or are you inviting me down to your place?"

"Oh, I'm easy - hm. Wait. Actually yes it does matter. Uh, d'you mind coming down here? I'm in Seattle right now. I'll get a seat for you on whatever flight you need. I know it's more out of your way but I think we need to discuss some things, an' I just wanted to do 'em face-to-face, y'know? A'course, you're more than welcome to stay the weekend!"

So Alfred has definitely seen the video feed. I wonder who it was who sent it to him. He doesn't sound mad, or upset (why would he be) but he does sound like he doesn't know what to say.

"Seattle is nice," I reassure him, "I'll be there by eight tonight." And I leave straightaway for the airport with Kuma in tow. (If American Airlines doesn't like it, they can call up Al for his explanation of the late notice. Love me, love my bear, dammit.)

I'm really not sure how Al will take it. On one hand, he bickered with Russia for years. Sometimes with threats. It always looked like it was coming to real fights between them, and while I had my episodes of rebellion during those times, I was never not on my brother's side. So after all that shared history of antagonism, Al is probably a little confused why I'm doing this.

On the other hand, my relationships are my own, aren't they?

On the other, other hand, Al and I ... have never actually dated anybody before this. We've always been really close to one another (although not like that) and sometimes I felt like there was an unspoken understood bond between us. I wonder if he'll be upset that I've broken it.

Although, I haven't really. If it's going to be anybody with me against the rest of the world, it's Alfred. New Worlders have to stick together and there's nobody who shares a relationship with Canada quite like America. Not even England, or France. Russia be damned, America's my brother. And if I ever did what I did with Russia, with America, it'd be different, somehow.

I suppose that, if I were ever to have dated someone, it'd've been him, even though our relationship has never felt like such a step was required. Platonic brotherhood seemed like it was enough for Al, and it was enough for me, so I didn't even think about it until now. There's a level of trust and love that's already there.

But I don't know if Al knows this. I've never told him. I never know how he feels about things like these. I know all sorts of things about him, like his enthusiasm for baseball and affinity for everything deep fried and his stubbornness at the gym on the treadmill to finish all thirty minutes even when it's 40 degrees C and he's tired as balls because he only goes like once a month and his secret love for sappy romantic comedies with hackneyed plots where the guy saves the girl and everybody lives happily ever after, but I don't know how he feels about me. Or any of us, for that matter. He's everybody's friend (and he's my brother), but he's never ever spoken of a possible lover.

Unfortunately, I still can't tell America that what I'm doing with Russia is faked for the sake of secretly helping him against some party - likely his bosses - that appears to wish him harm.

\--

"Hey, you brought the furball!" Al notes gleefully, when he picks us both up at the airport.

"I just got back from leaving him with Lisa for a few days," I explain, "I couldn't up and leave him again, it'd be cruel. I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all," says Al. "Good thing I'm in Seattle and not, like, LA. No place for a bear." He leads us to his car. "Hop in!"

Once we've gotten onto the highway, Al begins with, "I wanted to ask you this not over the phone. It's been awhile now that I can't tell who's tapping what. At least I know my car is my own, so we have privacy here."

"Good grief, is there no place in the world safe from spies?" I ask. I never spend so much time or money on these sorts of things.

Al shrugs. "Aw, you know. It's just part of a program the FBI cooked up. It's a good plan, it's for everybody's safety! It's just one of those little things we have to live with now."

He doesn't seem angry, I note. In fact, he seems almost guilty. "What's this about?" I ask.

"So I, uh. So. ...I'm sorry," he says, "I'm really sorry," and from there it all spills out in a mumbled rush that I can decode only from practice. This is Al's 'I goofed' voice. "I saw the video feed from the elevators in Indonesia, I didn't - I didn't know what it was gonna be, I just make it a point to get a copy of whatever the Russians are curiously interested in and they sure as hell were interested in that! But I didn't think it'd be - anything like - like _that_ , I didn't expect it at all, and anyway. That's personal. I intruded, even if I didn't mean to."

This is unexpected. "It's okay," I say, "really! If anybody has to see ... _that_ , at least I'm glad it was you." It's pretty embarrassing nonetheless. I hate the idea of France or England watching it.

"Yeah. Although elevators, really?" I laugh to try and cover my blush. "Well, I haven't told England, or France yet. I know, special relationship, but bros before... former bros."

That's really touching. "Thanks, eh? I really appreciate it."

There's an awkward silence that hangs around mustily in the car, during which Al appears to brace himself for the next topic and I wonder - if the material from the elevator hadn't been so R-rated, would Al have told me he had seen me in secret discussions with Russia? Finally Al says in a quiet voice, "But... you ... _were_ gonna tell me at some point? About you two?"

"Ah... honestly, I don't know how serious it is. If it became serious, of course I'd've told you."

"So, you're not serious with him then."

I shake my head very quickly. Hopefully not too quickly. "I don't think so."

"Does he think so too?" Al mutters. "You and Russia, of all people."

"What's so strange about Russia?" I ask.

The instant I say this, I regret it. Al smirks mirthlessly and says, "Oh I got a list I keep some place. No, I just - there were other people that I thought you'd - anyway." India's comments float back to me, as does an image of Katya. Who is beautiful, and lovely, and sweet and wonderful, and a close friend and drop dead gorgeous and probably off-limits forever now that I'm dating her brother. (Even if it is fake.) "So, uh. How'd it start?"

I have to pay close attention to what I say now. Ideally, Al is the only one I'll tell, but if there are other inquiries, those stories will have to match this one. I therefore keep it vague, and mostly truthful. "Oh, the usual way, we got to emailing, a visit back and forth." (And then bam! Handjob in an elevator! It's a slippery slope! I fight to keep the giggles away. It's all so absurd.)

"Still sounds pretty serious to me," says Al.

He won't leave that aspect of it alone. I'm not yet sure why. "Well," I say, trying to be dismissive, "we'll see."

"I can keep a secret. I won't tell a soul, honest! I understand if you wanna keep it hushed."

I believe Alfred. But maybe not his government. Because if he knows, then his boss probably knows, and maybe a few other people in the FBI. They had to expend manpower to get that video in the first place. Now, it's likely they've kept it at that level, but whether it'll stay at that level isn't for sure.

In any case, Al's comments about these government programs tells me I shouldn't expect top secret in today's world, when everybody can find a way into everybody else's business. There will come a day when people will know what Russia and I are doing, and the idea is to be done with whatever his problem is long before we have to go public with a pretend relationship.

So this gives us a time constraint. Get Russia's problems fixed before the cat's out of the bag and I have to explain to people why I don't feel what I should feel for my boyfriend.

I wonder what some of the others I met with over Christmas would say. Russia's sort of why I was so social, but not all of them are on such great terms with him. Would it change how they see me?

For the moment, I put these thoughts out of my mind and enjoy my time with Al, who, true to his word, says not one blip more about it. He even lets me take a minute alone to send that message to you-know-who.

Gil's online when I send it off, awake for an early meeting today, so I also take a minute to check in with him, because between jetlag and flying to Seattle I haven't yet had the chance to tell him my boss didn't actually murder me. When I've finished, Al gives me, and my laptop, a strange sad look. "What's the problem?" I ask.

He shakes his head like it vanishes his worries and replies, "Nothing."

\--

The second I get back to Ottawa, Colin expects to know where the hell I was all weekend, and I realise I forgot to let him know where I was going. I tell him I was with America and Colin is momentarily assuaged. Kuma, who's with me while I'm receiving a dressing-down for not telling my boss my exact movements, speaks up and interrupts Colin to tell him he's annoying, which I agree with but it doesn't make my punishment any lighter or Colin's face any less red.

Then I am informed that my plane privileges - on _my_ airline - are revoked.

I don't like being confined or pinned down, and I especially don't like it when it's because I've misbehaved, and I really especially don't like it when I _didn't_ misbehave (how is talking with another nation unsupervised misbehaving? and is he really angry I took a long weekend to see family? Don't I have enough vacation days?) and my boss is treating me like a teenager he's grounding. It's upsetting enough that my plane privileges are regulated by him, and that he's seen fit to take them away like a toy I want. But his attitude is really starting to raise my hackles.

Ordinarily I'd let Colin have his moment of power, and maybe act up in other ways he dislikes to piss him off, to let him know I don't like what he's doing, but I would remain on the continent (and probably in the city).

But, well, one thing leads to another, and before I know it I'm sneaking out of work to hightail it to the airport to board a last-minute flight to Rome.

Slippery slope, alright. Here's how that happened.

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 8, 04:54**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Conclusion to APEC activities**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

I've just checked my schedule. Unfortunately I'm busy **this** week and the next. The week after that **is** a little better for me. Would that be **good** for you? I am in Italy for a quick meeting about which I cannot say more, other than its location. If you don't mind flying out to see me, it would be convenient.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 9, 01:28**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Conclusion to APEC activities**

I don't mind flying far to see you. **Why** Italy in particular? I **highly** doubt it's the only place you're going to be traveling for a meeting - I know you travel to Brooklyn often enough. Is it the awkward feeling of being **scrutinised** constantly?

(I hope that's not 4am your time. And here I thought I was a night owl.)

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 11, 11:46**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Conclusion to APEC activities**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

**But** Brooklyn is difficult, given all the roadblocks with which your brother likes to pepper my travels. **We** are watched a lot more whenever we're there. In Italy I **have** the assurance the watchers are Russian only; everyone else, I can probably pay off.

(If that sounds like an **excuse** I confess it might be; I prefer bribing unfriendly officials to look the other way when I kiss my boyfriend than running into your brother.)

(Ah, I have such a hard time sleeping these days! I hope you will not hold that against me, when it comes to it.)

\--

When it comes to it?? When?!?

(Is he just inviting himself into my bed? Okay, the elevator was one thing, that was improvisation. And 'kiss his boyfriend', alright, we've got to keep up appearances. I blush - I guess I don't mind kissing, he was ... decently skilled. But a _night_ with him, that's ... that's a little more than I'm prepared to do.)

I have to calm myself. He's probably just saying this because his bosses are watching and he wants to make them uncomfortable. It's exactly what I'd do. In fact, though there's been silence from Colin, that's because he likely hasn't gotten around to reading my mail. When he does (they are on a government server, of course) he'll be just as creeped out. (Good! I hope his eyes bug out of his face!)

And these emails are fake. They're just a conduit for the coded message.

The thought of - in a bed, doing - would we _actually??_ \- it sends a shiver down my spine and my face drains of colour. My heart picks up the pace and my hands go clammy at the prospect. I can't fathom it.

But he had his hand around my dick, obviously he can fathom it just fine. I begin to consider the daunting prospect that Russia is a lot more serious about this than I am, and that it's possible these emails are not just idle flirtation to him. (Precisely how much help does he _need?_ )

\--

**From: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 12, 16:27**  
 **Subject: WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME ABOUT THIS**

ARE YOU DATING THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION

THAT'S SOMETHING I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT

MEETING, MY OFFICE. NOW. YOU HAD BETTER NOT HAVE LEFT FOR THE DAY BECAUSE I DON'T CARE IF YOU ARE EN ROUTE TO SEATTLE AGAIN YOU ARE COMING RIGHT BACK

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 12, 16:34**  
 **Subject: WOULD YOU RELAX, HE IS JUST THIS GUY I KNOW FROM WORK AND SUCH**

I'll only agree to waste my time being berated by you for thirty minutes for not having told my boss about my relationships (what part of 'state has no place in the bedroom of the nation' didn't you understand) if you agree to send me to Italy next week.

Unofficially, of course. Booty call.

\--

**From: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 12, 16:35**  
 **Subject: NONE OF THIS IS FUNNY**

Don't be disgusting. Your sass is severely underappreciated.

Fine. Where exactly in Italy do you need to be? Last I checked it has more than one airport.

Get over here NOW.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 15, 05:57**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Conclusion to APEC activities**

Italy it is. Where are you supposed **to** have your meeting, can you say? Security will let you **do** that much, won't they? Or was I supposed to guess **what** city you'd be in?

(You know, if you came here, nobody would bother watching us. And nobody would need to be paid to look the other way. And we could go to bed as late as you want and get up as late as we need. Just a reminder.)

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 17, 21:28**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Conclusion to APEC activities**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

I **see** \- yes of course I can say, I thought I told you already. **Each** meeting in Europe for me is always scheduled in the capital cities. The **other** representatives prefer to keep tabs on me and most often I don't wish to, how you call it, rock any boats. The exception is your brother whom I **regularly** piss off with my best behavior so I have stopped bothering to try.

Anyway, I promise if you will meet me in Rome I shall do my best to ensure it is worth the secrecy. And of course, if there is secrecy involved we can be assured of a bit of privacy from both sides.

(The last time we were in Canada your food burned my boss's tongue off. And they don't like the openness you so obviously adore. It's not a no, just a not yet. Let me convince you I am worth a mere test of your patience.)

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 20, 13:06**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Conclusion to APEC activities**

**They'll** put me in to Italy for Tuesday at two in the afternoon. Will you **be** meeting me at the airport? I confess I'd rather have a moment to refresh after a long flight. And someone needs to be **watching** Kuma for me.

(I can hardly believe you're such a sweet talker, for someone the world likes to paint so darkly.)

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 21, 11:43**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Conclusion to APEC activities**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

**Then** we shall say perhaps five, meet outside your hotel (you must let me know where you are staying to send the car around)? **Let** me plan something for us to do for the evening after dinner. I have asked **them** to grant me the privilege of a meal away from supervision but if I am not allowed this much, then I strongly recommend the Himalaya Palace. We can **watch** my bosses be uncomfortable.

\--

Now, I'm sure it's a mystery why, if Colin has already agreed to put me in to Rome, I still need to bother with sneaking out.

Well, Colin pulls me into his office the day after he's emailed me freaking out about my supposedly personal supposed relationships. "Here's the itinerary," he says, handing me a printout.

He couldn't've just flipped this to me by email? Waste of trees, Colin. But as I look it over I have to keep a close hold on my facial expressions. "I'm going to Italy... via Calgary? And Denver?"

"Is there a problem?" Colin leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers.

"Not that I'm trying to be ungrateful, I just don't see why I have to backtrack two time zones before I head to Europe."

He shrugs. "That's all that was available at the time. Take it or leave it."

I frown. Could've had a lot more choice if I'd booked it myself. "And why such a long stopover in Denver?" I ask. "Seven _hours?_ "

Colin sighs. "Search me, I don't know how American Airlines runs its business. Bring your laptop and minesweep the time away."

I take the printout with me back to my office where I do a little investigating and place a few calls to American Airlines customer service, who inform me politely that the stopover is necessary to swap pilots.

If you ask me, too much can happen in seven hours _besides_ swapping a pilot. I'm also not thrilled about swapping our Canadian pilot for an American one - I'm sure they're competent, but not my citizen? Not my jurisdiction, _not my control._ And I really doubt any of this happened by accident.

Colin is being obvious about this and it reads like a message: "Sure, you can do what you want, but only if I'm behind the curtain calling all the shots and I get to watch."

So the printout winds up in the wastebasket under my desk, ripped and crumpled. I sincerely hope the office security cameras caught me doing that.

And then I take a taxi across the city under the cover of going to National Defence HQ, and instead go to the giant mall across the street from NDHQ, where I place a call on a public payphone to Italy Romano.

He said over Thanksgiving that I was welcome anytime, didn't he?

And I'm not willing to call Colin's bluff on the 'take it or leave it' bit, and the Big Brother nonsense is getting tiresome, so rather than play any more games, I'll just head him off at the pass.

Romano picks up with a gruff, "Pronto."

"Italy Romano! I'm glad it's you. Uh, sorry. It's, uh, Canada."

Asking for him, not his brother, softens Romano into continuing this conversation a little longer. "Uh-huh. What do you want?"

"I need a favour," I say. Might as well get to the point. "You remember speaking with me in November? Well, uh, Alitalia flies direct out of Toronto, don't they?"

"They do. You wanna seat?" There's some rummaging in papers, and then Romano says, "But, ah... I notice we don't have any meetings anytime soon. No conferences, you and I. None to which I am invited."

"It's a private meeting. My boss isn't being too kindly about it. My boss doesn't exactly like privacy. My boss has kind of been pissing me off lately."

Romano grunts a sympathetic reply; he understands all of that, all too well.

"Unfortunately, it's last minute. Can I get the Monday flight at 4?"

"Not much time. That will cost you," Romano says.

"That, I've planned for," I assure him. "And, uh... what's more, I need this to stay between us. And only us."

Romano is silent on the phone and for a moment I fear he'll hang up. I think it's clear enough from my tone of voice alone that I intend privacy to mean between him and I, to the exclusion of _both_ of our brothers.

"That will cost you _more_ ," he replies.

"That's fine."

\--

Monday morning I go through my usual morning routine trying not to betray myself, but my hands shake more than they usually do and my stomach can't keep anything down.

Luckily most people chalk it down to the fear of flying I pretend to have. And it helps that I can switch the visibility on and off - the more I do it, the better I get.

Nobody watches me be a nervous wreck when nobody can see me. _Colin_ even pokes his head in my cubicle and walks on without a word. I don't know why I didn't figure this out earlier! Having invisibility like a switch is so useful!

Kuma is under my desk most of the morning snoozing on my feet. He's a welcome, warm weight. He'll certainly have to come with me, though it'll be awkward having him around with Russia ...

... and that gives me an idea. A marvellously, evil idea.

The flight I've selected leaves at 4, so at 2:30 (and that's cutting it close with rush hour traffic) I leave my cubicle and exit our wing of the vertical cube farm. "Where're we going?" asks Kuma-thingit, trotting behind me to keep up with my brisk pace.

"To Lisa's cubicle," I reply.

"I'm not going with you?" he asks.

"You're coming with me," I tell him.

"We're going the wrong way," he protests.

"We're going the right way," I insist. "Now do me a favour and hide behind that giant fake plant next to the wall."

Along this stretch of wall, in the hallway between two cubicle-farm wings, the cameras are pretty good, but cameras are no match for me anymore. I switch my invisibility on, and once Kuma is mostly hidden, I march up to the fire alarm and pull it.

For the record? I really don't endorse doing this.

The sirens are loud and immediate and as the doors to wings B and C open to a flood of people ditching their workspaces for a breath of fresh air, I pull Kuma up into my arms and backtrack to Lisa's cubicle. Once I'm there, I drop the cloak.

"Jesus!" she gasps. "Where the hell did you come from? Does this mean it's a real fire?"

I shrug. "I dunno about that," I lie, "I just wanted to ask you, how do you feel about business trips?"

"Okay," she replies uncertainly.

"How do you feel about business trips _to Italy?_ "

Her eyes grow big and I grin.

\--

There are too many people in the emergency stairwells for safety's concern, which means our quick getaway is more of a slow crawl at the speed of human traffic, but I can't spot Colin so he's either off in another stairwell or too convinced this is a drill to move his fat ass out of his chair.

Once outside, the usual thing we're supposed to do is to stand off to the side and wait for an all-clear.

We don't do this.

(To be completely fair, we're not the only truants. A number of people I recognise are just leaving for home because the government of Canada pays them no matter what, and on a Monday, 2:30pm is basically the same thing as 5pm.)

Instead, we head to my car, parked on the road (and ticketed - sigh). "Hop in," I tell Lisa - Kuma-jerk steals shotgun - and I drive us to the airport.

\--

This is Lisa's first transatlantic flight and though she's excited for the first hour, the excitement quickly wears off and she spends the rest asleep, drooling on her makeshift pillow. Once Kuma is settled I do more or less the same thing.

We land eight and a half hours later in Rome, and as I'm stretching my legs past the suitcase carousel (I didn't give Lisa time to pack luggage, and I travel light) I notice that the flight to Denver has been postponed to arrive for later tomorrow.

Hmph. Sure, Colin's aim was probably to give us as little time as possible together, but he's not the one who'd face a pipe for standing up someone like _Russia_ for over twenty-four hours!

I don't like the looks of the hotel Colin's booked me either. I also don't like how the Russians probably know which hotel it is already, so that means we book again. This is where my research beforehand comes in handy.

The second we land, I call up Romano. "Safe travels, enjoy, an' all that crap," he says, "but just so you know, it's possible you're not the only one of us in Italy right now."

"What a coincidence," I say, feigning surprise. I'm delighted. It would be sad if Russia had been detained on a flight like Colin had hoped I would be. "I don't suppose you might know where such a person is staying? You know, so I can avoid them and all."

"I can't tell you," he replies, "but if I happen to say, accidentally, that my dumbo brother has meetings all weekend in the Radisson hotel conference room, well..."

The same hotel Colin's booked me. More the reason to get out of it. "I didn't hear it from you," I promise. Romano hangs up.

Then I call up the Radisson and I tell them I'm canceling my reservation. I'm afraid I won't be able to make it. _Very_ sorry. The front desk complains that there will be a cancellation and rebooking fee, but I tell them that's fine.

Lisa overhears me. "Where're we gonna stay?" she asks.

"Not there," I reply.

"Colin's gonna be mad."

"Colin's gonna be mad for so many reasons that this is really peripheral. It's okay, don't worry about it."

She huffs. "Says the guy who can't possibly be fired."

"Colin won't fire you," I say. "Trust me." Lisa's strange, blunt, really lazy and questions orders too often for someone at her pay level, but one of the best assistants a nation could have, and easily my favourite in the last century.

We board the airport shuttle to downtown. "Why can't we take a taxi?" Lisa asks.

Because cab drivers can be bribed, and Lisa's not supposed to be here.

"Because Italians really like little white teddy bears," I lie.

Kuma, true to his promise to me, keeps so still he almost passes for a stuffed animal, which I clutch to my chest.

We arrive about an hour later at the place I booked from home. It's perfect. It's old - concrete walls four inches thick - hope the Russians enjoy drilling through that quietly - and decently cheap, so I bought up four rooms. Mine is number 303, at the end of the hall. I tell Lisa to take 302, on the left, and tell her to wander upstairs and downstairs to 403 and 203 every so often, so that people think there's someone directly above and below me. If she meets anyone, Russian or Italian, she is to be brusque and rude so as not to invite questions or conversation. The last thing I want is her drawing attention to herself.

"That leaves one room on your right," Lisa points out.

"Exactly," I say. As long as I leave the Russians an opening, they think they have the upper hand, and therefore won't pry as deeply as I knows they can. They won't suspect it's planned.

Plus, I know exactly where they are. There's a lot of peace of mind that comes with that.

When I explain all this to Lisa, she looks at me and says dryly, "It's a good thing I love you, Canada."

She keeps saying that. "What do you mean?"

"You ask a lot," says Kuma unhelpfully. Then he looks up at Lisa and says, "I'm hungry."

"Of course you are, honey," Lisa sighs. "They should just call you stomach with legs. C'mon, let's go find you some fish."

This leaves me to do my own business. I rearrange the furniture a bit, then take a shower, put on nice clothes - anybody would think I'm dressed up for a date - which, when I think about it, I guess I am - and I walk out the door. I have it timed exactly for me to send one last email to Russia.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 22, 17:23**  
 **Subject: update**

**Be** a bit late, flight was delayed. But we checked in, so I'm **prepared** to meet up, shouldn't take me much longer. Five **to** ten min okay? I noticed traffic doesn't **move** too quick here. Let me know if you need more time.

Meet outside your hotel in a bit.

\--

Then I find a cab. I ask the driver to pull over about half a block from that goddamned Radisson. "Do you know where the closest taxi stand is?" I ask.

"You need? I can stay and wait," the cabbie offers.

"Ah, I don't know how long I'll be," I lie. So he points me in the right direction and takes off.

For my own part, I stroll up to Russia. He's alone - or looks like he is. I guess the people who are watching him will allow him some semblance of independence. How _kind_.

"Hey," I say. I lift a hand to tap him on the shoulder to alert his attention in case he hasn't heard me, but at the sound of my voice he turns around. Finally, I'm getting better at this being noticed thing! I try to turn my raised arm into a casual wave. I suspect it looks more sheepish than suave.

"Ah. Hello," he says. "Where did you come from? You are not staying here? What they said..."

I shake my head. "Got a better deal on another place downtown. It's a lot nicer. I was thinking dinner and a movie?"

"That sounds good," he agrees.

I look him up and down. He's dressed up, like I have, which I find more flattering than is necessary for our business. Long, sleek black coat, shiny shoes and pressed trousers, a button down shirt in gray herringbone without a tie, the first few buttons undone, and overtop it all, _that damned scarf_. Loosely bound around his neck but for god's sakes, you can't take this guy anywhere! I guess it's not like I'm ever really the best-dressed man at the dance either. Maybe I can convince him to leave the scarf at the hotel...

... And about now I realise that from his perspective I've been raking my eyes over his body for the past minute. Obviously, I like what I see.

"Not necessarily in that ord-" my voice catches halfway through and I cough. "Ahem. Sorry. Movie first? I'll take you back to where I'm staying."

He smiles wide, with dimples and a faint blush. "Hmm, I see. Yes. Oh! But quickly -" Russia pulls out his camera from a pocket, tugs me close by the shoulders, and snaps a picture of us.

"You need proof?" I ask sarcastically.

"Darling Canada has a habit of, ah, disappearing on people, so I hear," Russia teases. "Not to worry. Is for my contact list!"

We walk a block to the taxi stand my earlier cab driver pointed out and take the first one in line. I tell him, "To the Hilton, please - here's the address," and then I hand him a little slip of paper, on which is written, _please take the most confusing route imaginable to the following address_ \- most certainly not the Hilton. _Ignore whatever I say and do only what is written. You will be paid handsomely._

Like I said. Cabs can be bribed.

Russia raises an eyebrow. I glance back to where the second cab behind us has already been hired. I bet I know by whom. "You didn't think they'd let us off so easily, did you?" I say.

"You surprise me," says Russia.

"In a good way?" I ask.

"Oh, _yes_." He smiles so widely. And then he leans over, sits a little closer and walks his fingers slyly over the backseat upholstery to sidle up next to mine.

It's sad what a little touch does to my heartbeat, it really is.

(He'll probably want to do ... _something_. A guy doesn't come all this way for nothing, so I should make it look good - Russia nestles our fingers together, locked tight at the knuckle - yeah, I can make it look good.)

A half hour later (for something that is only a five minute drive) I'm sick of looking at city skyscrapers. Even Russia, for all his patience, has begun fidgeting in his seat, wriggling around and grinding his ass into the chair. It shouldn't look sexual, but as I said I'm sick of looking outside and he's the only other pleasant thing to look at and he is _writhing_ in his seat.

I have to be covert about it. I don't think he wants me ogling his body, but eye contact with him makes me uncomfortable. Looking at his body also makes me uncomfortable too, but for different reasons.

The second cab is still following us. At a distance, though. I think they think that I think we've lost them. I didn't want to lose them at all. I just wanted them to think that I did think that, and that I think I've succeeded in getting away.

(Confused yet? Me too.)

Finally the cab pulls onto the shoulder to let us out at my hotel (much nicer than the Hilton or the Radisson; unlike Colin I have taste) and I tip the driver handsomely.

We walk in and act as though nothing is wrong. I'm pleased to spot Italy Romano now behind the counter of the check in, posing as a member of the staff, and I give him a quick wave hello. From the way his eyes go wide and he pales, he's clearly put off by the sudden appearance of Russia, who's supposed to be at the Radisson having meetings with Italy Veneziano, but Romano stays mostly cool and says nothing. He nods back.

Silent ride in elevator. We don't speak. It's not because I have nothing to say, but, well... Let's say I learnt my lessons with talking in elevators.

We get to the third floor. "This way," I say, leading him back to my room. It's the one at the very end of the hall. I overhear Lisa talking to Kuma in the room on the left side.

Right now, I'll bet the crew that perpetually follows Russia around has gotten to the front desk, and Romano is explaining to them in no uncertain terms that the adjacent room, on the right side of our room, number 304, is the only vacant one in the proximity of their "friends" as they claim we are.

They'll think they've won, they've got it nailed, they'll listen in from there and they won't resort to any more sophisticated means of eavesdropping.

What a shame I moved the large wardrobe onto that side of the wall earlier. What a shame I don't plan to do any talking. At least, not with my voice.

I extend in invitation a hand towards the bed. Russia helps himself to it, climbing on gleefully. He props up the pillows onto the headrest and leans back, facing the TV.

I pop in the movie I brought with me. Russia waits for the opening credits and then laughs out loud. "You _didn't!_ "

"Of course I did," I grin. I join him on the bed and we sit back to watch _From Russia With Love_ \- because if ever there were a movie about Russian spies, it's an old Bond flick like this, and I couldn't resist.

"But you know, I have seen this film," Russia notes. "Many times!"

"So've I," I tell him.

I overhear someone entering in the room next door. It's not Lisa. Lisa has a tendency to slam the doors on her way in and out. There's also some hushed, furtive whispering that I can't decode for two reasons: too silent, and too Slavic.

Russia also hears it. He sits up straighter and when I look over, he is smiling his frozen smile, his, _I'm sure that isn't my bosses in the other room preparing to spy on us_ smile.

I take a deep breath - strength, Mattie, strength - and then I place my hand on his thigh. "I don't plan to be _watching_ for very long." I smile back with what I hope looks sexy but is probably more nervous than I can control.

At first, he goes rigid, but after a moment's deliberation, Russia relaxes into the pillows on the headboard, and lets his legs fall apart subtly enough to allow me room to move. I trail my fingers a little closer to his inner thigh and his breath hitches.

"I understand," he murmurs.

I proceed to entirely ignore the movie. Like I told him, I've seen it before - many times - and it doesn't interest me. Instead, I let my finger trace an idle path on his thigh, spirals and circles, for a few moments as he breathes deeply. He spreads his legs wider. I catch his eye and then trace letters - slowly enough that he can frown at me if he misses a letter. _OK?_ I trace.

He nods.

I point to my eye - a question if they can see us. Russia shakes his head, but with a deliberate motion - too deliberate to be anything but a signal - rubs his ear.

We can't talk openly, but at least they can't get a camera feed in here.

So I go on tracing my message on his leg. _How are you?_

He blinks, deciding what to say, and then slowly puts his hand on my knee. He's very warm; the heat from his body bleeds easily through my pants. _Scared. Unsure._

 _Of what?_ I trace back.

_Changes. I don't like changes. These ones will be big._

_How big is big?_

Russia looks at me and with a grim smile traces, _big enough that I pester other nations, yes?_

I wouldn't call what we're doing pestering- well, actually, maybe I would. _Are you in danger?_

 _Not yet._ And then he smiles, deep dimples in round cheeks, and traces, _it's much better with you here._

I try not to blush but I can't fight that, or a face-splitting grin. Charmer. But it works, doesn't it, because the next messages I trace get progressively closer to his groin.

He'll be nice - I'll be nice.

I could be _very_ nice.

The thought no longer creeps me out like it should.

 _What can I do to help?_ I ask.

He thinks, and after a minute writes, _nothing specific yet. I mean it, when I am with you I am more myself. More clear. When I am myself, I don't let them do stupid things that will get me into much trouble._

It must be big. Anything that affects the mental state - not that Russia's is ever that stable to begin with - is not something to be taken lightly. In sympathy, I let my hand rest a minute and squeeze him gently, the inner thigh close to where leg meets torso. For a moment the intimacy throws him off and he sighs deeply. Then he meets my eyes and covers my hand with his. I'm sure I'm not imagining that slightest pull towards the tent in his pants. _But we need a new code._

 _They keep breaking old codes,_ I write.

He nods.

 _KGB?_ I ask.

With a wry expression he nods again.

_Any ideas?_

_If we're dating, I can maybe pass you things directly and hide messages inside,_ he traces. _It depends on my behaviour today._

_I let them follow us._

_Yes. They are nearby. That was smart. They like to think they have the control._

_Want me to think up a good code?_ I ask. The question mark traces around his crotch, and its point, I tap on his fly.

Now I'm just teasing him. I shift in my seat on the bed. I'm not exactly unaffected by all this either - it seems the slow seduction and our secrecy excites me.

He shakes his head. His cheeks are getting redder by the minute and he breathes deeply through his mouth, little gasping pants, _I have one with me,_ he writes. _I know what they know. How clever my code breakers are._

_Where is this code?_

Russia looks at me, at his hard cock in his pants, at _my_ pants, and then grins.

 _They had to check my pockets,_ Russia traces, and now his fingers are trailing close to my groin. I guess it's fitting to get a taste of ones own medicine - I've been teasing him for the past hour - but it makes me throb, and he gets as bold as to cup me through my pants and massage me. And now we're both hard. _So I had to put it somewhere clever. Guess where._

I raise an eyebrow.

"You're going there anyway," he whispers, fondling me.

I push him back against the headboard with enough force to make it slam against the wall. He gasps, shocked. I'm sure it shocked those in the next room, too. I fling one leg over his to straddle his legs at the knee. Now that I have both hands free, I grab him at the fly and unzip his pants. His cock is leaking through the material of his underwear, and as I pull it down by the waistband he falls back against the headboard and moans.

There, wedged in the seam on his underwear, is a small piece of paper folded up. I deftly pluck it out and put it in my back pocket...

...and theoretically that's all I came here for, and my job here is done.

But there's still some time left in the movie.

And what kind of 'boyfriend' would I be if I left him like this? Really, it's just rude.

The people listening would suspect something.

And he's hard. For _me_. Things like this don't happen too often.

I wrap my hand around him and jerk him slowly, base to tip. "Ah, _yes_ , he sighs. His eyes flutter closed. "Oh," and he pushes his hips up as far as my weight on his legs will allow, to thrust his cock deeper into my grip.

Oh, he wants faster? Tough, I'm enjoying seeing him squirm like this for me.

I get a hold on one side of his hips and pin them down with my other hand. He whines, unhappy at being restrained, and I fight a smirk.

Besides, if I keep both my hands busy, it stops me from doing something reckless, like pulling myself out and shoving our cocks together, like I want - like I _really_ want - and probably shouldn't. If I trusted him so little I had to tell the driver what to do with a piece of paper, so that Russia couldn't hear, I don't yet trust him for something quite that intimate.

But I want to. I crave it, he's so warm, the last time I've been with anyone was so long ago I don't even remember it, and suddenly here's big powerful mister Russia and he needs _my_ help and fuck I'm gonna come in my pants if I keep thinking about that, or, or about how nice he looks like this, his arms stretched out, gripping either side of the headboard with white clenched knuckles, his red cock hard in my grasp, his body a taut string in my hands and his hips thrusting up beneath mine, I can almost feel him naked and brushing up against my clothed erection, oh _fuck_ -

To help stave off my orgasm, I loosen the scarf around his neck and dive in mouth first. He tastes like salt and cigarettes - he must smoke - and his skin feels burning hot. As he tilts his head to let me in, he groans at the touch of my tongue.

The first two buttons of his shirt are already undone but I'd like to see more of his chest. I'd like to kiss my way down it, I'd like to see how sensitive he is, but when I fumble for a third button, his hand flies to mine. "No, you mustn't," he says frenetically, "please, not today, I cannot, I..."

He doesn't trust me either.

He's wearing a wire. A goddamn _wire_.

I jerk him angrily, but it seems he likes that because one, two harsh strokes in my clenched fist and he's coming all over it, warm and wet, his face contorted in a grimace of pleasure. He moans loud and long and I wonder who that's really for - me, or his _fucking bosses_.

When he calms down I'm still on top of him. My hand's dirty and my legs are getting cramped from being in this position, but Russia looks up at me with an almost-apology in his eyes and no smile on his lips. So instead, I don't move.

"Your turn," he says, cryptically, before he takes me by the shoulders and pushes me back onto the bed.

I have barely enough time to straighten out my legs, and I hardly register the feeling or sound of my fly being undone before my cock is engulfed in a hot, wet sensation. Oh my god, Russia is giving me a blowjob. I don't even trust this man with my hotel address and here he is with one of the most sensitive parts of my body in the same place he keeps his teeth.

But for his credit, Russia's not interested in games. He gets to business and applies his tongue and fuck if he isn't good at this! He drops down low and takes as much as he can - and comes back up again. He trails his tongue around the crown of my cock, laves the broad blade of it on the underside, flicks the head with his tip and then swallows me whole again. I can't believe how good this feels, why didn't I insist on this before -

It won't take me long, I'm already so hard and the fact that people are listening to us should make me pause, it should creep me out but it doesn't. It makes me want to fuck Russia's beautiful hot mouth and hold him down by his smooth hair until he makes me come so hard I see stars.

So that's sort of what I do. And to his credit Russia seems to like that too because I weave a hand through his hair and he grunts, I press him down upon me and he groans loud and his lips tight against me, I can't hold on and _people are listening, people are watching us_ and I come in his mouth.

Russia swallows most of it. What drips down those wicked lips, he wipes off with the back of his hand as he sits back and smirks. I'm too satisfied to dispute it.

Behind us, the credits are rolling on the film.

"Dinner?" I ask him, and he smiles more genuinely.

"Ah... for dinner, we might have company," he adds. "Public place. You know."

Like they haven't stationed someone nearby for hours now. "Do they like Indian food?" I say dryly.

He thinks, and then shakes his head no with a bright smile. "What a good idea!"

It's before we leave the room that he mouths, _thank you_. And then, _I'm sorry._

But before I can ask what for, he pulls me into him, wraps his arms around me and kisses me soundly - and I leave it for another time.


	10. Chapter 7

7\. _(aftermath of italy)_

The second I get back within signal range, on Canadian soil, I get five messages delivered to my phone. Two from Gil, three from Al.

None from Colin, which is curious.

It's 4 on a Wednesday, but I'm still pissed at Colin so I figure I had better go directly to work. Lisa opts to go directly home. Given Lisa's perpetual laziness, this doesn't surprise me, and we part ways at the airport.

The taxi from the airport pulls next to my office building by 4:30, and by 4:45 (Kuma waiting underneath my desk with a squeaky toy) I'm marching up to my boss' office. He isn't there. I ask his administrative assistant and she says that Colin's off in a meeting with Treasury Board until six.

Fishy. First off, all of Colin's Treasury Board meetings are in the morning or perhaps early afternoon; and secondly, while his assistant is cooing over Kuma-thing, I take a quick peek at the open calendar on his desk. Nothing until a telecon with BC's premier at 5:30. Seems late for a meeting, but they are three hours behind.

So I have some time. I tell his assistant I'll be back at six sharp, and she smiles and nods, happy to get rid of me. Then I shoo Kuma away down the hall, make myself invisible, and camp out in Colin's office, sitting silently on the desk.

Colin returns at 5:35. "Did he come by?" he asks.

"He did indeed," replies the admin assistant. "I told him you'd be back at six."

"Did you now!" Colin barks a laugh. "I'll have to make it a quick call to go home early. Thanks, Catrine."

And then he enters his office and closes the door behind him.

That's when I drop the cloak.

It surprises Colin when he turns around and finds me suddenly there, but he recovers fast. "Matthew," he says calmly. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"You're damn right there is," I say.

"Well, maybe you can make an appointment with Catrine out there like everybody else does -"

So he can avoid me again? Fat chance! "Sit down, Colin."

Colin folds his arms and looks away. "Y'know, I've got a telecon with McAllan and the other Greens right now."

"You've kept him waiting five minutes, he'll wait another five. This has got to stop."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

His antics are pissing me off. And it tells me he's done something and he knows I know. "You put me on a flight that you knew would be delayed so that I wouldn't get to Rome until much later and I'd have less time with Iv- the Russian representative."

"You can't prove that."

" _And_ you booked me into the same hotel the Russians were staying in."

"Jesus, Matthew! You wanted to go to Italy to see your damn boyfriend, so I have you put in the same hotel and now you're bitching about it?"

"Was that at Petrova's request? I bet she insisted you tell her my room number, so that she could have it bugged in advance!"

"You're talking paranoid," says Colin. "And getting on my nerves. And none of this can be proven. So what do you think you're accomplishing, here?"

"Stay out of my business," I sneer. "It doesn't have anything to do with me as ... as whatever I am. So you don't need to concern yourself. You don't like the Russian representative? Well you're not the one dating him, eh?"

"Oh for the love of- I don't care who you date! This is not Romeo and Juliet!"

"You're right about that. Unlike them, I've also got to deal with my boss going behind my back to organise a hotel stay with the Russians, so they can easily monitor their own representative and spy on another nation's at the same time. And he gives me nonsense with American Airlines, stalling me on purpose to minimise the time we spend together! I mean, sheesh, Colin, you spend ten hours in travel to see someone, you expect it to be for more than fifteen minutes!"

Colin sours. "As if time means anything to you people anyway!"

Says the man who wouldn't have to face the wrath of Russia after standing him up for twenty four hours! I think that's as close a confession - or apology - as I'm likely to come right now. "I expect my airline privileges restored in full. It's Air _Canada_ , and I am _Canada_ , so make it happen."

"Fine," Colin grumbles. I'm surprised intimidation worked so well. I expect to fade away at least once during any altercation, and he's actually agreeing to my terms.

But it doesn't change the fact that he was poking about with other governments about me without my consent. And if I hadn't caught him doing it...

"Just promise me one thing," Colin asks.

"What's that?"

"That whatever's going on with Russia... That it doesn't affect you. Have you considered that it might?"

"It won't," I tell him with confidence that I don't myself feel, not entirely. "I've got enough domestic issues without the baggage of another nation."

As I leave Colin's office it strikes me: he's got no way of knowing that there's something at all affecting Russia. I could ask, and he'd probably blow me off by saying there's always something affecting Russia, but the point is he knows something.

Then he knows I'm not 'dating' him. He knows it's for show. If that's the case then why has he been a constant hindrance?!

Colin must be talking to someone who has inside information on there something being wrong with Russia.

And I need to find out who that person is... although I've got a few guesses.

\--

Once I get back home - I know my emails and websites at work are monitored, albeit not very closely - I unfold the paper that Russia gave me. It's a URL address. Wouldn't it be more dangerous to keep a file online?

So I enter it into my browser window and it redirects me - no less than three times! - and then finally pops up what looks like an advertisement. Four beautiful topless women fill the screen with flashing text saying "click here! beautiful eastern europe women in your area!". One of them looks frighteningly like Katya, and I'm not just saying that because her breasts are gigantic and pressed to the screen. I blush and almost close out of the window out of habit and shame.

But at the bottom I notice a link on the text _Matvei_. That _has_ to be for me.

I click it, and for a moment nothing happens. Then the ad window closes and the other window goes to a new site. I don't recognise the domain name but it's a .ua site - one of Ukraine's.

A download, '13990342.zip', appears on the bottom of the browser window.

The automatic download finishes. I get to my file manager, find it in my Downloads folder, scan it briefly with my virus checker (unbelievably, it's clean), and then unzip it. It contains a single folder, titled 'home' and within that, an application entitled 'home' as well, plus a file entitled picture.jpg. A picture can't possibly have a virus in it, so I feel okay about opening that first.

It's a picture of a giraffe.

Okay, now I'm lost.

I try opening the application in a document editor but that just gives me garbage. There has to be some way to view the code it's written in, doesn't there? After a few minutes I give up and just double-click.

What could go wrong? I swear, if Russia did all this just for a virus... But my anti-virus is up to date and will catch whatever malware there is on this. Not to mention, there's nothing on this computer that would be worth investigating.

It gives me a dialog box asking, "Encode or decode?"

Oh... I get it now.

I press decode.

Then it gives me a window of my filesystem and another prompt. "Select file for processing", it asks.

So I select the picture of the giraffe.

It takes a few minutes and gives me a status bar that I can watch go from 0 to 100% slowly, as it prints vague things like "working" and "pre-processing...finished". Once it hits 100%, the application shuts down.

There's a second picture in the same folder now, along with the giraffe, entitled output.jpg.

I open this ... and it's a handwritten note, scanned in as an image file. I recognise the penmanship as Russia's own, from the brief notes in the envelopes.

 _C -_ , it reads. _This program will allow you to submit an image to be encoded into another image. I will not explain the details - mostly they elude me too - but suffice it to say, one image may be extricated from another from either side using the 'decode' option. Similarly, you can take an image and hide another image - perhaps a scanned document of your composition, shall we say - inside it, using 'encode'. As you can see the resultant image appears the same to the naked eye, and the hidden image is recognisable, if a bit corrupted._

_I trust you to think up clever ways to send me pictures through email that fit with our cover story and that observers also do not want to see, so that they will hardly glance at the picture and certainly not suspect that there is sensitive information contained within it. If we are discovered, they will stop playing games at codebreaking, and will simply send for me to do the work under duress._

_If you have managed to receive this, send me some sort of quick note or email or text message affirming it. Use the timestamp code. If I receive nothing to this effect, I shall not send anything more. I cannot risk it._

_I remain - yours -_  
 _R_

Under duress. Delightful. I quickly send off an email.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 23, 21:00**  
 **Subject: back home now**

Short **message** to let you know I'm back at home; thanks for a lovely time in Italy! **Received** a call earlier today with country code +7, was that you? It occurs to me that I don't have your number.

\--

I get a reply within twenty minutes.

It's 5 in the morning his time, what is he doing up so early? Does he not sleep?

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 23, 21:38**  
 **Subject: Re: back home now**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

Hello! Happy to hear you are back home safe.

I thought the picture I took of us was very cute! I am using it for you as contact.

Yes, that was me! I hope you do not mind, I got your number from Ukraine. You can text me there, if you like, if you do not have a good long-distance plan. But I suggest you do as I do and have the government pay for your minutes!

Yours,  
Rossiya

1 attachment - download all attachments  
[kanadacomnoi.jpg]

\--

The picture he's attached is one of us, when he stopped us outside the restaurant before we left. Clever! I thought he just wanted a cute pic but no, he had this all cooked up in advance.

He must be desperate.

Eagerly I download the file and put it through the program.

Output.jpg is another handwritten note, a little bit grainy, too sharp and altered, from Russia.

 _Canada,_ it reads,

_I thank you for your response in this matter. Again, I must tell you how much your help means to me._

_I need copies of paperwork pertaining to the fall of the Ottoman Empire. It must be relating to matters that beings such as you and I deal with on a regular basis - perhaps meeting minutes for re-establishment of trade relations immediately after the First World War? The exact document does not matter but it must have information regarding to Turkey - the being as we know him - and his then-mental state of affairs. Mental, physical, anything is helpful. I need to know what happens when we cease to be what we are and become something else by a different name. A different government. Do we ourselves become yet different?_

_I am concerned, you see. I think something along these lines has or will happen to me._

_And of course, it cannot be an official treaty signed by our heads of state at the time. As such, it will not exist in any official capacity - such documents I could procure for myself with a decent internet connection, as they are all available online._

_I regret that I no longer have these documents myself. I ought to, certainly - I was in attendance at these meetings although I was perhaps distracted with other events on my horizons. There was also anti-Ottoman sentiment during the war, both under the Empire and the nascent Soviet Union. I similarly do not have the same documents for when I myself have changed over the years, as times were troubled when the Empire became the Union, and then when the Union became the Federation._

_A lot of things burn during revolutions._

_But - manuscripts don't burn, you recall, a famous quote from a book we both know well - and you can't have all copies gone forever. Someone has to have something. Might you? And if not you, might a friend? (You need not tell them why you need the information.) I believe it may be easiest to obtain these particulars for our friend Turkey during this time in his life, but if you should happen come across such information pertaining to me - I would also like to have it. I would request the informations myself, but so my laws state, I am no longer permitted them._

_Officially, that is._

_I remain, gratefully, your eternal friend -_

_Rossiya_

He wants something, discussed between us - people like us - well, that wouldn't ordinarily be difficult to obtain, I could ask just about everybody and I like to think they'd give me what I'm looking for. But at this time in our lives? Isn't that a bit gauche?

I've heard rumours that you go a bit crazy when changes get big. That explains Russia, anyway.

I'll have to be diplomatic. It'd be rude to ask Turkey directly. But do I know anybody who knows Turkey well enough that they might have such documents?

Hmm... America and England both keep good books. Maybe they've got something.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Bcc: colin.campbell@pm.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 24, 01:41**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: back home now**

Hey!

 **Working** from home today, I hope? You're not usually **on** so late - I'm about to go to bed myself.

 **It** is a nice pic but a nicer one of you than one of me, I think! I wasn't ready and you just whipped it out.

(I don't mind. We should've exchanged numbers in Italy.)

-C

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Cc: borovsky@fsb.ru, petrova@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 24, 02:56**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: back home now**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ru**

I confess I stayed up late for other reasons, not that emailing you is not one of them.

To bed with you, then? Dream of me!~

Yours,  
Rossiya

(ps, if you don't like it, you could send me another?)

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: arthur.kirkland@homeoffice.gsi.gov.uk, hero@ic.fbi.gov**  
 **Date: May 24, 09:23**  
 **Subject: question for you**

Hey, might either of you have a copy of something we discussed (one of our meetings, not with the bosses) about the time Turkey became Turkey round about the late 1910's, early 20's? Don't think I was there at one of the meetings - I don't seem to have a copy of this anymore and I know there was something sent around.

(Having a meeting with Turkey in a bit, don't want to look dumb.)

Best,  
Canada

\--

**From: hero@ic.fbi.gov**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 24, 14:44**  
 **Subject: Re: question for you**

Nah bro, I got nothing, sorry

But here's a copy of Wilson's 14 points. It's not the one you'll see online, it's got all our changes marked up. As you can see, we went back and forth with it, he and I, since he didn't really get who we are and what we do. Humans, y'know! Lotta talk about what went where with who and why, maybe that helps?

<3!  
\- America

1 attachment - download all attachments  
[14pts-scan.jpg]

\--

**From: arthur.kirkland@homeoffice.gsi.gov.uk**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 24, 17:01**  
 **Subject: Re: question for you**

Thought I did but I'm afraid I've misplaced them at the moment. I distinctly remember signing something.

All's not lost though, let me ask around a bit and I'll get back to you.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 24, 22:16**  
 **Subject: since you insisted**

here!

[photo.jpg]

The camera on my phone isn't very good! You can barely make out my nose with all the graininess. And it doesn't focus too well.

Do I get one in return?

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 24, 22:16**  
 **Subject: Re: since you insisted**

Ah, you ask so nicely, I cannot refuse!

[foto.jpg]

\--

I notice Russia's not CC'ing his bosses on this one, but that doesn't tell me they don't know what's going on. If I know them like I've come to know them, these past few months, I suspect they get a copy of everything he touches.

Also... that picture....

Now, I'd sent him America's 14 points copy - just in case, I don't think it's what he's looking for - underneath a picture of my face, but Russia sends a provocative image of himself, taken with the camera held slightly above. It's a good angle for him (it's a good angle for most people, makes for nice shadows). But moreover, his lips, poised in a half-smile, are parted, his shirt's - he's taken off his tie, he's loosened his scarf, and his shirt is unbuttoned to mid-chest and pulled open. His hair looks tousled - I don't think he's done anything to it besides run his fingers through it but it makes him look playful and incredibly - dare I suggest it, incredibly sexy. Even his eyes sort of convey a certain... allure. He looks quite lovely.

Looking at it makes me blush. Rereading his email, with the picture in mind, injects a certain intriguing tone into it. That makes me blush harder.

So, I don't know, maybe that document was what he was looking for, because this sure looks like a reward.

No, he's... he's probably just doing this to piss off his bosses.

With a sigh I put foto.jpg through the program to decode it, and receive another hand-written note from Russia.

 _More like this would be perfect,_ it reads.

And also, _Don't be afraid to be a little flirty in your pictures! My bosses will hate it._

\--

**From: clearlyawesome@gmail.com**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 26, 09:01**  
 **Subject: turkeys**

A little birdie told me you were lookin' for Turkey stuff. Thanksgiving again already? LOLOL

(but srsly, dude's at our place like every 2 weeks. Whatever you need I can get you, you know that, right?)

  
Sent from my Awesome iPhone

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: clearlyawesome@gmail.com**  
 **Date: May 26, 09:32**  
 **Subject: Re: turkeys**

Really! I did not know that.

Do you have anything about him from the time he became the Republic? Something that might've had to do with how the Allies were going to deal with any possible instabilities?

I'm asking him about some sensitive stuff and don't want to risk a faux pas.

Thanks!  
Matt

\--

**From: clearlyawesome@gmail.com**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 26, 18:18**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: turkeys**

omg, no Turkey is hard to offend. Trust me. He tolerates me just fine!

Anyway, there's this - it's the "Convention Regarding the Abolition of the Sultanate and Republication of Turkey". Francey-pants drafted it, you can tell by the froo-froo name. England signed, I signed, Italy signed, with Germany, the Bolshies, Austria and Hungary initialling attendance. It sounds special but it's really just a document saying who's gonna trade with who for what and why, whose bosses need to be shipped off to other countries, etc etc.

It was a three-day meeting and this was the only decent thing that came out of it. The rest was us bickering back and forth. But I think at one point there's something, I think it's Hungary actually who brings up that hey someone oughta check in on Turkey and make sure he's okay, that was a lotta land to lose like that, his name changed and his boss changed, you know how tough that can be on a nation. Well, actually I guess you don't, that's why you're asking.

Anyway! I hope that helps. Let me know if you need any more Turkey stuff, we still have a box of his stuff in the basement that he left here thirty years ago and probably doesn't mind me digging through.

1 attachment - download all attachments  
[RepublikTürkei_001_1920a.pdf]

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: clearlyawesome@gmail.com**  
 **Date: May 26, 19:03**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: turkeys**

This is _fantastic_ and literally everything I need. Thank you so much!!  
Matt

\--

**From: clearlyawesome@gmail.com**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 26, 19:04**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: turkeys**

Ah, hey it's no problem! You know I'm always happy to help :)

-Gil

\--

**From: arthur.kirkland@homeoffice.gsi.gov.uk**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 26, 23:32**  
 **Subject: Re: question for you**

Can't seem to find anything. Sorry!

Have you tried Prussia, though? As I understand it Turkey's over at their place often. And you two are decently close and he keeps excellent records. Moreover I'm sure he wouldn't mind giving you anything you ever wanted.

Just a thought.

\--

**From: ymaohyd@wales.gsi.gov.uk**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 27, 01:01**  
 **Subject: swansea protocol**

hylo ffrind!

heard you wanted stuff about significant nation changes! & you did't even consider the home country?

here's a doc i drafted myself years ago. & you yourself signed it and all the c-wealthers we know and love too. surprised you didn't think of it first? ah maybe you didn't want to ask england tho. i understand, it's an awkward time in a young boy's life when he must realise his empire days are utterly over.

but he's just fine, isn't he?

.....OR IS HE????

(no, he is.)

ta ra!  
-w

1 attachment - download all attachments  
[cytundeb_abertawe.pdf]

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: ymaohyd@wales.gsi.gov.uk**  
 **Date: May 27, 07:57**  
 **Subject: Re: swansea protocol**

This is exactly the kind of thing I was looking for! Thanks so much!!

Did you translate this just for me? gosh, thank you!!

-Canada

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: arthur.kirkland@homeoffice.gsi.gov.uk**  
 **Date: May 27, 07:59**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: question for you**

In fact I did! He got back to me not long after I sent that message to you two with exactly what I was looking for. Did you tell him? If so, thank you! Much easier than I'd thought.

\--

**From: ymaohyd@wales.gsi.gov.uk**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 27, 08:40**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: swansea protocol**

twas nothing!

-w

\--

**From: arthur.kirkland@homeoffice.gsi.gov.uk**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 27, 10:40**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: question for you**

Wasn't me.

\--

With Wales' copy of the Swansea Protocol for the Construction of the Institution known as Commonwealth, and Prussia's copy of the Convention Regarding the Abolition of the Sultanate and Republication of Turkey - sometimes I think there's a contest going on for most pretentious paperwork title - it should be enough for Russia to figure out what goes on when decently large empires lose a significant amount of land and sometimes undergo a name change. To the best of my knowledge, neither of these quite apply to him to begin with, but they paint an interesting picture.

Turkey's instability, for example, sounds a little like Russia during his darker times - from the way it's described in the Convention, he sounds practically senile. But with England, it's completely different - at no point does Wales describe any kind of strangeness, although he has been around England constantly for some time. Maybe the buddy system is what helps? It would explain why Hungary tasked someone with dropping by to check on Turkey every now and again.

Besides, Turkey - and England, and everybody I know who was once a large empire and who fell (with the exception maybe of Russia) are all perfectly sound nowadays, so it can't be permanent.

Now, how to get him these documents.

I feel completely stupid sending him a picture of myself looking sexy - the last time I tried to look cool in front of a mirror I wound up hurting myself - but at the same time I can't just send him nothing. He outright said himself, make it look good. Make it look ... convincing.

I have to be convincing.

I try unbuttoning the first two buttons of my shirt, then a third. It feels uncomfortably drafty. I pull the shoulder down a little bit, exposing my collarbone. It feels draftier. I don't think I've felt less sexy in my life. And a pouty expression isn't going to change that! How does Russia manage to be so calm and composed with these things? Like, oh, let me just whip out my model face and instantly turn beautiful, with sexy tousled hair begging for fingers to be run through it, and, and parted soft lips, and come hither eyes -

My pants are slowly getting tighter. No, you know what, this is dumb, I'm not going to posture for the camera because unlike stupid sexy Russia, I _suck_ at it.

I take a quick picture, encode Wales's information, and send it off before I start overthinking it.

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:12**  
 **Subject: happy Sunday**

Haven't spoken in a few days, how are you doing?

As you can tell by the photo, I miss you.

[photo.jpg]

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:16**  
 **Subject: Re: happy Sunday**

I wait three days and this is it?

You'll have to do better than that))

You have many more interesting things to show me yet, and besides, I see your face all the time!

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:18**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: happy Sunday**

This is a government-issued phone!!

\--

**From: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:19**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: happy Sunday**

So is mine)))))

\--

**From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:21**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: happy Sunday**

We have _rules_ against that here in Canada! Don't your bosses read these emails?

\--

**From: shtirlits@mail.ru**  
 **To: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:26**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: happy Sunday**

Ah, excuses, excuses... rules are fun to break. Show me what you got)))

\--

**From: themapleleafforever@gmail.com**  
 **To: shtirlits@mail.ru**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:29**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: happy Sunday**

you cannot possibly be asking me for what I think you're asking me for

\--

**From: shtirlits@mail.ru**  
 **To: themapleleafforever@gmail.com**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:37**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: happy Sunday**

And if I am? Will you give me what I want?

Here, some incentive...

[foto.jpg]

And besides, many have access to this phone - my bosses for one - if you should happen to give them a reason to look away it would make me very happy. Very, very happy.

I promise I won't tell anyone))) our little secret.

Come on, don't lie to me and say it doesn't make you feel just a little excited.

Italy was nearly a week ago, and I don't know when they'll let me see you next. Give me something to think about.

\--

He can't mean what I think he means.

_Don't be afraid to be a little flirty!_

_Make it look... convincing._

_Give me something to think about._

But that's absurd!

I'm reminded of the things Russia's already sent in his previous emails, though. It's clearly the case that whatever he feels for me, he has no qualms about making it look good. So far, his game's a lot better than mine. I guess if he's perfectly willing to step up, then so should I.

With a deep breath, I unzip my pants and shove my hand inside them.

The window's closed, the curtains mostly drawn, nobody can see, and even if they did - a guy masturbating at a computer, hardly anything eye-opening - I even have a perfect excuse, not that I need one -

\- _well, you see, my boyfriend asked, and I thought, why not?_

And did you see the pictures he's sent me? He _wants_ it. He wants _me_.

Slowly, my dick responds to the thought of it. Russia's pretty good-looking when he decides to be. This last one he sent me, he's leaning up against a wall, his hands behind his back. I wonder who's holding the camera - I hope no one, I hope it's timed.

And all output.jpg says is "Let's give them a show." No, the real message is in the photo itself.

His shirt's open to the waist, and his pants are undone, the fly down, the waistband tugged low on his hips. He isn't wearing any underwear and I can almost make out the faint bulge beyond the hair, thick root nestled in grey curls. His expression looks dishevelled, raw, ruined, lustful, like he's just been fucked hard or is about to be. His legs stand apart, reminding me of the way I'd touched him in the hotel room in Italy, supposedly to send a message through my fingertips. But even if we're here for a purpose, is it so wrong to have a little fun? And his thighs fell open to me with his erection warm in my grip, how couldn't I touch him, I wanted to, pocketed the code and pretended like we were there all along for sex, not to exchange information - god, we should've gone further, done more -

I want his lips on me, I want his hands on me, I want -

With a breathy gasp I realise I'm close. If I want to take a picture of this it'd better be now.

I'm so turned on, I hardly have the presence of mind for shame as I snap a picture - strictly below the waist, no identifying features! - encode the Turkish document from Prussia inside it, and send it off. But I attach the picture instead of inserting it into the email. At least let me have that level of privacy!

\--

**From: themapleleafforever@gmail.com**  
 **To: shtirlits@mail.ru**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:52**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: happy Sunday**

You are terrible.

And you'd better not be at work because this isn't safe for it.

1 attachment - download all attachments  
[photo.jpg]

\--

Let his bosses chew on that for a change!

And then, I remember - I'm all alone on a Sunday afternoon, nobody's around... I _could_...

Kuma waddles into the office and the moment's destroyed.

No, this is dumb. I can't do this.

Once I've tucked myself back into my pants, washed my hands, and returned from the washroom, Kuma is on my chair in front of the computer. "Hungry," he says.

"Aren't you always," I tease.

"You've got mail," announces Kuma-beast, and hops off the chair.

So I have. One from Russia and two bounce-back emails.

\--

**From: shtirlits@mail.ru**  
 **To: themapleleafforever@gmail.com**  
 **Date: May 27, 14:14**  
 **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: happy Sunday, then**

A very, very happy Sunday to me))))))

Thank you!

tseluyu)))

\--

**From: mailer-daemon@mail.ru**  
 **To: themapleleafforever@gmail.com**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:58**  
 **Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Failure)**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ee**

* Don't reply to this email *

The attached send message had PERMANENT fatal delivery errors; if you believe you have received this message in error, contact your local server. Provide these information to him or her for quicker service: message: pd85083094460.msg message-ID: <002da1ce4fdb$53f9eb40$fba2c1c0$@ca> [copy to clipboard?]

After one or more unsuccessful delivery attempts this attached message has been removed from the MDaemon mail queue on this server. The number and frequency of delivery attempts are determined by local configuration.

\- YOUR MESSAGE WAS NOT DELIVERED TO ONE OR MORE RECIPIENTS -

\--- Session Transcript ---  
Sun 05-27 13:57:00:  
Parsing message <xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx\pd85083094460.msg>  
Sun 05-27 13:57:00:  
* From: themapleleafforever@gmail.com Sun 05-27 13:57:00:  
* To: shtirlits@mail.ru Sun 05-27 13:57:00:  
* Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: happy Sunday  
* Size (bytes): 932512 Sun 05-27 13:57:00:  
* Message-ID: <002da1ce4fdb$53f9eb40$fba2c1c0$@ca> Sun 05-27 13:57:00:

Attempting SMTP connection to [mail.ru]  
Resolving MX records for [mail.ru] (DNS Server:  
72.137.123.84)... * P=010 S=000 D=mail.ru TTL=(8) MX=[mxs.mail.ru] {78.24.228.108}  
Attempting SMTP connection to [78.24.228.108:125]  
Waiting for socket connection...  
* Connection established with intercept (72.137.123.84:92 -> 195.50.236.47 -> 78.24.228.108:125)  
Waiting for protocol to start...  
<\-- 220 Mail.Ru ESMTP  
\--> EHLO mail.googlemail.com  
<\-- 250-mx142.mail.ru ready to serve  
<\-- 250-SIZE 734103420  
<\-- 250 8BITMIME  
\--> MAIL From:<prvs=13260efb51=themapleleafforever@gmail.com> SIZE=932512  
<\-- 250 OK  
\--> RCPT To:<shtirlits@mail.ru>  
<\-- 250 OK  
\--> DATA  
<\-- 354 Go ahead  
Sending <xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx\pd35000094660.msg> to [78.24.228.108]  
Transfer Complete  
<\-- 550 We cannot accept email from IP 72.137.123.84 without a DNS PTR record. Contact your ISP/HSP to set up a PTR record for your server.  
\--> QUIT  
\--- End Transcript ---

\--

**From: mailer-daemon@googlemail.com**  
 **To: themapleleafforever@gmail.com**  
 **Date: May 26, 14:46**  
 **Subject: Returned mail: see transcript for details**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ee**

You sent an original message, received at May 26, 14:42 from localhost [72.137.123.84] (may be forged)

\----- The following addresses can't be resolved and have permanent fatal errors -----  
paavo.lundkvist@hot.ee  
(reason: 554 5.0.0 we do not accept spam)  
(expanded from: pdm)

We value the trust of our users but cannot accept spam email. Contact your ISP/HSP to avoid him or her shutting down this account.

\----- Transcript of session follows -----  
procmail: Lock failure on "/$(HOME)/mail/spamdel.lock"  
procmail: Error while writing to "/$(HOME)/mail/spamdel"  
procmail: Couldn't determine implicit lockfile from "/usr/sbin/sendmail"  
procmail: Incomplete recipe  
... while talking to a.mx.mail.ru.:  
>>> DATA  
<<< 554 5.0.0 we do not accept spam  
554 5.0.0 Service unavailable

Final-Recipient: RFC822; shtirlits@mail.ru  
X-Actual-Recipient: RFC822; paavo.lundkvist@hot.ee  
Action: failed  
Status: 5.0.0  
Remote-MTA: DNS; a.mx.mail.ru  
Diagnostic-Code: SMTP; 554 5.0.0 we do not accept spam  
Last-Attempt-Date: Thu, 7 Oct 2010 04:25:57 -0400

  
\---------- Forwarded message ----------  
* From: themapleleafforever@gmail.com  
* To: themapleleafforever@gmail.com  
* Date: May 26, 14:42  
* Subject: Hi matt, get super discount. on Lakes extensively...

\--

"I thought they only sent a bounce-back when your message didn't go through," I muse.

Kuma-critter climbs back on my lap. "They do."

"Then what's the idea? The emails must have gotten through, Russia acknowledged them."

"They're not real," Kuma-thing supplies.

I lean towards the monitor and squint. "I don't get it."

"Look closer," he says.

"I am looking closer!"

"Are you going to feed me?"

I push him off my lap. "Gimme two secs. Go wait in the kitchen." Kuma trots off.

They sure look real. Though... it's strange that one of them bounced yesterday, when I sent Russia the first document from Wales, and that I've only received notification of it bouncing today. But I know he got the message, because - well, because he said so, because that's what led him to provoke me into ... _inappropriate behaviour_.

But it doesn't even make sense, May 26th is the Saturday, I didn't even get the email from Wales until Sunday morning.

Then, if the timing's off...

Someone's using our timestamp code.

\--

**From: mailer-daemon@mail.ru**  
 **To: themapleleafforever@gmail.com**  
 **Date: May 27, 13:58**  
 **Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Failure)**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ee**

\- **Don't** reply to this email -

The attached **send** message had PERMANENT fatal delivery errors; if you believe you have received this message in error, contact your local server. Provide these information to **him** or her for quicker service: message: pd85083094460.msg message-ID:  <002da1ce4fdb$53f9eb40$fba2c1c0$@ca> [copy to clipboard?]

After one or more unsuccessful delivery attempts **this** attached message has been removed from the MDaemon mail queue on this server. The number and frequency of delivery attempts are determined by local configuration.

\- YOUR MESSAGE WAS NOT DELIVERED TO ONE OR MORE RECIPIENTS...

\--

**From: mailer-daemon@googlemail.com**  
 **To: themapleleafforever@gmail.com**  
 **Date: May 26, 14:46**  
 **Subject: Returned mail: see transcript for details**  
 **mailed-by: server.dom.ee**

**You** sent an original message, received at May 26, 14:42 from localhost [72.137.123.84] (may be forged)

\----- The following addresses **can't** be resolved and have permanent fatal errors -----  
paavo.lundkvist@hot.ee  
(reason: 554 5.0.0 we do not accept spam)  
(expanded from: pdm)

We value the **trust** of our users but cannot accept spam email. Contact your ISP/HSP to avoid **him** or her shutting down this account.

\----- Transcript of session follows...

\--

I suck in a quick breath, a frisson of fear down my spine.

Don't send him this. You can't trust him.  _They know!_

But who?

I - I have to tell Russia!

I panic and it's only with luck that my eye happens to land on the right field in the sender information.

On the server.

But... the other servers... I could swear that -

In fact, I'm sure that -!

I filter through my mail for Russia's correspondences.

Server.dom. _ru._

Every one of them.

These ones are .ee.

And I bet if I check the IP addresses that the transcript logs give me, I'll find the exact same thing.

Someone's been watching us.

_Estonia._


	11. Chapter 8

8\. _(end of may through mid-june; a quick trip to kazakhstan)_

As I feed Kuma, I reflect on what I've learned. This is troublesome.

More importantly, how am I going to tell Russia about this in a way that Estonia won't know? Russia has to know! But I can't send him an email about it, I can't use the pictures, I can't use the timestamp code. Estonia's shown me just now that he's able to crack _both_. I could try the code with numbers, the poem code, but I have too long a message to send. It'd involve too many numbers to slip into conversation, it would be foolish, it would draw attention. It wouldn't be covert.

Russia has to know that _another nation_ is spying on him.

I can't believe Estonia! This is an outright act of international espionage! And I know he and Russia are never really on the best of terms but you know, he gets by with NATO and the European Union. More and more these days, he's a little on the hotheaded side when dealing with Russia. He talks pretty big. He never does anything though - and his NATO membership and Eurozone alliances mean that it would be senseless for Russia to start anything. Russia would win - of course he'd win - a nation as populous and well-defended as his against tiny, little Estonia? (Though I check the numbers - Estonia's outspending either of his brothers in defence, and that's without even normalising for population!) No, Russia would win, but he'd collapse an economy that he too relies upon. It'd be insane.

But sniping across the table from him in meetings - as far a cry as it is from anything Lithuania or Latvia do (generally nothing) - is one thing. This is an outright provocation, and unless Estonia can prove that Russia started it, it might violate NATO terms.

What's Estonia meaning by betraying his hand to me? This calls into suspect everything I send to Russia by email. _Everything!_ That damned hacker can get his hands on it!

More distressingly, what if Estonia can prove that Russia started it? _You can't trust him_. In our dealings these past few months, Russia hasn't given me a whole hell of a lot of truth to go on.

What if he's right?

And I can't ask Russia directly, or send anything to him, because his bosses'll know -

... wait. They know... that we're 'dating'.

So why can't I just ask where he'll be in June and then be there myself?

We'll find a way when I get there, to meet up privately, and discuss what to do - maybe there I can tell him that someone is watching him - someone, meaning one of us - and gauge his reaction. I have excellent Baltic relations without having to schmooze my way like at Christmas, I don't want to jeopardise those, so until I can figure out what Estonia's doing and why, I don't want to risk outing him yet.

I take a look at my calendar. I'm doing nothing in June, and then it's holiday season for July, with the world meeting shortly thereafter. (I wonder if Ivan will send me another birthday card.)

Isn't there anything sooner? Maybe I don't have to be invited to it...

The biggest thing I see is the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation. That takes place over two days in the third week of June. That'll have to do.

But it's in Kazakhstan. Would he let me in?

Who else... I check the list of attendees. Russia, naturally; Afghanistan, Belarus, China, India, Turkey, someone from ASEAN will be there looks like Singapore this year -

Wait, _India!_

India still likes me! I gave him chocolate at Christmas, he _has_ to like me! That's how it works, right?

I ring up India instantly, without remembering that 2:30 in the afternoon my time means it's nearly midnight in New Delhi.

India picks up after four rings. "Bhai, if you were anyone else, I would have let it ring," he says scratchily, like I've woken him up. Sometimes I forget how old he and China are, until they start acting like the grouchy, crotchety old buggers they are. "But I know you, I know you and you don't call. This means big big stuff. Now I am tired, too, so don't be leg-pulling. Cut to cut baat karne ka!"

"S-sorry, I -"

"No apologies! Ah, you waste my time! What is it?"

"I -" India throws me off so easily. It's better I just spit it out without trying to be my usual diplomatic self. "I need you to invite me as guest observer to the SCO," I blurt.

"Eugh. Why would you want to go to this meeting. It is literally the most boring. And Kazakhstan - I mean, nice guy, don't incorrect, Astana's very nice city, but his food? Not that tasty."

"India, you think everybody's food isn't tasty."

"He spent too long with Eastern Europe! His idea of spicy is _dill!_ Should be held in China every year. China makes sure there is soy for people who get gassy with milk. Like China! Maple-ji, I cannot _talk_ to these people."

"S-see? More the reason you need me there!"

India sees right through me, as he always does. "C'mon, what's this all about, really? Why do you want to go?" I don't answer, and he fills in the blanks. "Who are you coming for?"

"There's, uh, someone I need to talk to."

"I see." I catch the sound of some rustling papers in the background on India's end. "And you can't email or call them."

"It's - it's private. I have to speak to them personally, I -"

"Oh. Oh! Hahaha... _accha!_ Yes, I am looking at list of invitees now. Oh yes, I understand. Miss Ukraine is going, CIS representative. You'll want to speak to her, now, won't you!"

Sure! Let's go with that! Thank god for jumping to conclusions. "M-my boss doesn't give me completely unfettered access to my airplanes like some of us. I can go, but I actually have to have, uh, a pretense for going. You see my predicament?"

"Yes, I understand," says India. "Alright! I did say I'd help. You're in. You'll get email sometime tomorrow maybe. Now let me sleep!"

In the meantime... maybe I can think up something better. In case Russia tries to send anything, thinking the coast is still clear.

I could call him. Russia gave me his number, didn't he? Assuming that Estonia doesn't have access to our phone records - though I don't know if I can assume that, since certainly his bosses do.

Suppose I talked acrostically, with the first letter of every sentence spelling something out. I could warn him not to send anything, that we've been compromised. I could warn him that we need to talk in person, at the working group. If we're lucky, his bosses - and mine - will assume the same thing India did: that I'm there for simple, innocent, _romantic_ reasons.

It's risky. Conveying to Russia that there's a code subtly enough that he gets it, but not so obviously that anybody else listening in wises up.

I sketch up a quick message and put my thinking cap on before I dial out to Russia. It's not quite as late there as it is in India - should be two hours behind, so call it about 10:30? He'll still be up.

Russia picks up the phone after two rings. "Allo?" he says, and I know it's _allo_ because France told me it was, but his o's are strange, and it sounds more like "a-lo-uh?"

Still, it's more exotic than it should be and even the sound of his voice kind of has me weak at the knees. I take a seat at the kitchen table. Kuma-beast, having finished his dinner, moves to nap on my feet, exhaling foul fish breath. I nudge him around so his mouth points the other way. "H-hey, uh. Russia. It's, um. It's me. It's. Um, Canada."

"Ah. Hello, 'me'!" He giggles. "Yes, I thought I noticed country code 1. Did not recognise everything else. Then ... this is you?"

"Uh, yeah." This is awkward. How do I start this? "Uh, li- listen. I, um."

"Only wanted to hear my voice?" Russia murmurs. I can _hear_ the smile in his words.

I grin, although he can't hear that, and say, "I don't suppose there exists any such thing as a private line for you, does there."

"Ah, no. There is no such thing. No matter how you want to speak, there will always be others...watching. Don't let it stop you!"

"Mm-hmm," I say. "Well. That'll complicate things. First of all..."

" _First_ of all," Russia echoes. "Yes, first things first. That's wise! Let me... get something here..." I hear a grunt and then a click of a pen. "Tak! Yes, proceed!"

His putting emphasis on this leads me to suspect he knows how to decode the following, so I begin the message. "Yeah, first of all, that's right. **S** o I managed to get into the, um, the SCO meeting, the one Kazakhstan's hosting, if you wanted to meet up?"

"This is in two weeks!" He sounds delighted.

" **U** nderstandably, it's short notice. **S** o if you can't make it I get it, but maybe you can spare some time. **P** lease? **E** vening, maybe just a half hour. **C** ould you ask your bosses? **T** here's a nice place I know, or we could just hang out at my hotel."

"Ah." The scritching on Russia's end stops and he re-involves himself in the conversation. "It is short notice, I must ask. I think maybe they let me! But probably, my hotel room, not yours. I admit, I am surprised. I thought our ... emails. With pictures, you know. I thought I had offended you." The words only sound apologetic out of context. Russia's tone of voice tells me he isn't very sorry at all. "I had to work so hard to get that out of you, was, how you say, like pulling teeth!"

" **P** ulling _something_ ," I snap.

"Oh, don't be mad," he coos. "I like you, I can't help myself!"

" **I** , uh, I'm flattered. ' **C** ause I feel, um, the same way." Oh my god kill me I am so awkward. At least that fit with the message.

"Do you!" Russia giggles. Then his voice goes from childish chuckle to dark lust in two seconds and I'm almost too taken aback to continue with the code. "What if you show me," he all but _purrs_. "Let me listen to you."

He can't be suggesting -!

Oh, no. He is.

Weren't the pictures bad enough!?

I guess if he wants to tick off his bosses this is the right way to do it. Teach them not to listen into a private conversation. I imagine Russia defending himself: my boyfriend sent me a picture like that, and then he calls me, he lives across the world, what did you expect me to do? Oops, _couldn't help it!_ My hand just snuck into my pants _all on its own!_

If they overhear what's evidently - um, _phone sex_ \- then there's no way they'll suspect there's really a code going on in here.

But I wonder if Russia will ... follow through, so to speak. We could just act it out without actually... y'know. Nobody's watching to see if we really _do_.

Well. Nobody's watching _me_.

I think.

Then again, he did send me a seriously lewd picture of himself. And then I sent him a _dick pic_ \- for fuck's sake, how much more following through can we do?

(I need to start accepting the conclusion that we're almost certainly going to wind up in bed with each other.)

Okay. I have to. Get a hold of myself.

Not literally!

...Maybe literally. I'm still pent up from before.

What's the next bit in the message, let me see here.

" **T** hat's an idea," I say. " **U** nfair, though."

"You want a picture of your very own? You can just come see it for yourself in two weeks. Until then, however... I'll give you a show like this?"

" **R** ace you, loser comes first," I joke. "Buys dinner in Kazakhstan?"

He laughs a breathy, short laugh. "I'll lose," he sighs. "I like what I see too much."

" **E** vidently. **S** o, what are you wearing?"

Russia laughs long and loud. "This is a good time, I was in shower, so ... ah. Not very much. Not very much at all."

" **C** old?"

"Not very."

" **R** eally."

"It's true! The towel is - short, and mostly wet, but my bed is warm." An image pops into my mind, of Russia with his face as it was in the picture he sent me - his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips parted - now paired with him wearing nothing but a scandalously short towel, riding up his thighs. Uncomfortable, I clear my throat. Russia pitches his voice a little lower. "I like to pretend is because you are here with me, hm?"

" **A** fter everything I've said to your bosses, I don't think they'd let me so close to you without a lot of, um. **C** oercion, first. **K** inda spoils any spontaneity."

"I don't need any of that," says Russia. "I just need you, next to me. Or on top of me. I am not picky."

Acting though it might be, Russia's bedroom voice is getting to me. " **E** -either or's good. **D** on't mind."

"Or, perhaps I am on top, I press you down, holding you by shoulders, kissing you senseless. First on your mouth, then down your neck, down your chest. You love it, in my thoughts, you can hardly move, can't hear two words not moaned. You squirm beneath me, you arch up and rub yourself on any part of me you can touch. I feel us - aah - slide together."

He speaks thinly, breathily, his words panted through the phone. It sounds like he has his phone pressed to his ear by his shoulder on the same side, so that it leaves both his hands free. I imagine his bare legs are spread under the covers, the towel having fallen open a long time ago, one hand with the pen marking down what I say, the other on his cock.

Because that's exactly what it sounds like he's doing. I can hear the shift of skin on skin, the hitches in his breath, every single crack in his voice on the words - it's a bit of a struggle to hear them.

I realise I'm straining for it. Trying to pick all the sounds out. Trying to listen.

And it feels like I've never been harder than I am now.

I kick Kuma-thinga-whatsit off my feet - he grunts unhappily but leaves the kitchen to go pad over to the couch and sleep on that instead. I'll give him extra fish later. It'd just feel weird, masturbating in the kitchen with the bear nearby.

It should feel weirder than it does, to unzip my pants in broad daylight in my kitchen, but nobody else is home but me, and the blinds are mostly drawn, and even so, the window faces the backyard. Nobody knows, surely!

Nobody knows except Russia, who catches the sound of the zip and begins to chuckle. "Yes," he says. "You like what you hear. You like how you hear me?"

" **A** nd can you blame me? **L** istening to you, you - fuck, you get me so hard. **L** ove your voice."

" _Ahh,_ " Russia gasps into the phone. "Not many people say this. I expected to hear something else. That instead you love this idea of me on top of you, rubbing against you. You love my hand on your cock, my mouth on your body. What will you let me do to you, Canada? I hold you down, you can't move so easily, there is much I could do. Where do you want my mouth first?"

" **C** ock, fuck, want your mouth on my cock," I say, as I finally wrap a hand around myself after hearing Russia talk on and on about it. It feels too good for me to worry about people listening in. " **O** h, god, yes."

"You like it?"

" **D** amn right I do. **E** very time I think about last week, in Italy, it's all I can think about, about you. **S** ucking me off."

"I could do it again," he moans. "But we do something different. I don't want boring. People get bored and stop playing with me, I must be a bit creative. So I spread your legs a little wider. You let me, yes?"

" **C** reative? **O** h you don't have to do anything fancy. **M** e, I'm not going anywhere. **P** lease, Russia -"

"I have told you, like this, call me Ivan. And I decide what we do! So yes, I lick you, alright - I put my mouth at the root of your cock and lick it up to tip - this lets me watch you arch and squirm. You like very much. I can tell. You are already wet in my mouth. I can taste you. Are you ready?"

" **R** eady?" What for? All he has to do is keep reminding me about his glorious mouth and I'll come pretty quick. " **O** h, uh. **M** aybe."

"Hmm! Good, then while you're properly distracted, as you move wetly past my lips, in and out of my mouth, I slip a hand between your legs and trace around your hole with a finger, before I put it inside you."

I'm shocked out of the code again. The idea simultaneously terrifies me and arouses me - part of me craves the kind of intimacy which this relationship is approaching at a fair pace, and the other part -

_don't send him this_

_you can't trust him_

\- the other part wants to heed a warning, which took some courage to send and must therefore be important.

Whatever, this isn't real. It's just a fantasy. " **I** van," I sigh, and let my legs fall open a little wider.

"You're so hot and tight around me, I want nothing more than to add another, and then take you properly, _aah_ , I want so much, you can't know, I could come right now thinking of it, can you hear me? Can you hear how badly I want you?"

" **S** o come for me," I breathe.

The next few seconds are Russia alone, moaning into the phone, with a squeaking sound behind him - the mattress, probably, as he thrusts into his hand and I try to match his pace on the other side of the line, until his movements grow frantic, his voice grows desperate, and he groans once more, long and loud, in my ear.

" **E** nough for you?" If he's been paying attention to the words he'll know the message is basically finished. But it'd be a shame to be left hanging here.

"Not yet," he says. "You're not finished."

" **D** on't worry about me," I lie.

That's it, that's the message. _Suspect pictures cracked all codes compromised_. There's no need to say anything more. If he's got it he'll know we need to meet as soon as possible, in June, over the days in Kazakhstan at the working group. We'll have to figure out something new.

He can disconnect any time he likes.

"But I must! So we continue, yes? Yes! Let me think... I have prepared for this, of course. I distract you again, so thoroughly that you don't notice second finger, or slickness, as I slip in and out of your body, and you slip in and out of mine. But before too long, you push back against me, is how I know _you_ want, too. You thrust back your body, moving towards me - yes - fucking yourself on my fingers. You want me to fuck you, Canada?"

It's only fair.

"M-matthew," I pant, "you can call me Matthew."

"Matthew," he growls. It sends shivers down my spine. I'm close, so close, and I speed up the rhythm on my dick, thinking of Russia's mouth... of Russia's fingers. "I like it, is nice name."

"O-or Matt, just Matt is fine. Fuck, Ivan, oh, don't stop."

Russia chuckles low and dangerous in my ear. "But I do stop, only briefly. I take my mouth off your cock, I remove my fingers from your body. I sit up in front of you, between your legs, and spread them farther with mine. Ah, yes, you know what comes next. You watch me slick myself up, your eyes grow large. Yes, is nice name, I like it - I think, as I place the head of my cock at your ass - but I think, I would really rather call you _mine_."

And in the fantasy he's concocted, I imagine him thrust inside me - _oh_ \- Russia between my legs, his mouth on my neck, kissing me, little flicks of tongue teasing me, and finally he says, with lowered eyelids and a bedroom voice, thick accent and all - _thank you Matvei, this helps me so much, you are so helpful, my hero_ -

The thought has me moaning, shouting, as I come. Orgasm takes me by surprise and overwhelms me. I barely get a hold over the tip of my cock so I don't spill all over the underside of the kitchen table.

I let myself indulge in the afterglow for a few seconds. Ivan, on the other side, chuckles. "Was nice, yes?" I moan, somewhat incoherently. "I lost!" he says. "What a shame. So I will pay for dinner, yes? When you arrive?"

"Oh, you don't have to do that," I tell him. I was mostly joking. For the sake of the code.

"Nonsense! I like treating. And you are only going to be there for me so I must insist. Consider, is something against flight cost. Yes?"

"I don't worry about that, trust me."

He tuts. "Ah, but _I_ do. Anyway, speaking of costs I am sure this is an expensive call - I will let you go."

"Alright," I say. "See you in two weeks."

"Hmm! I look forward to it," he replies.

I hang up the phone.

\--

Two weeks later finds me at the international airport in Astana, boarding a cab for the city. I have a hotel picked out - not one I told Colin about, trust me. When I arrive at the conference the following morning, Kazakhstan pulls me aside.

He's taller - and thinner - than I remember, with shockingly dark hair, cut cropped short, dark eyes, and a mouth with corners tilted permanently down. He has skin a warmer colour tone than Russia and epicanthic folds on his eyes but the large, aquiline nose is a feature I recognise as something vaguely Eastern European. If he were smiling, he'd be handsome, but I've never seen him smile and today is no exception. "What are you doing here?" he asks gruffly.

"India didn't tell you?" He shakes his head. I hold out an email printout of what India had sent me. "I'm observing. Just here for fun, though, really."

Kazakhstan squints at me after he's done reading the printout. I give him my nicest smile.

"Oh, yes," he says, finally recognising me. "The north one. Yes? Not your brother, the south one. America. Not him."

"Exactly," I reply. Not America.

Kazakhstan shrugs and hands me the paper back. "Okay, it's your time," he says, and leaves me with three tourist brochures for the capital city.

I tag around for India a bit, but India has some work to do here and leaves me in the afternoon to go off on my own. Time to find Russia.

Well, I find Russia, alright, and he's surrounded by his bosses. Surely they know I'm here? We did give them advance notice.

I walk up to the group of six people - Russia and his two bosses I recognise, the three security agents, dressed in three-piece suits and sunglasses, I don't. "Hey," I say, to Russia.

"He has nothing to say to you!" snaps Petrova.

"I wasn't talking to his bosses," I reply smoothly, without looking at her. I smile, making it clear my next question is directed only to Russia. "Are you free for dinner?"

Russia opens his mouth to reply but Borovsky interrupts and talks over him. "Perhaps we can work something out. This is Korovyev," he gestures to the blond security agent, who glares harder. "He can serve as chaperone, yes?"

A romantic dinner for three is not entirely what I'd had in mind. "And after dinner?" I try to make it clear through my tone of voice what I mean by after.

Korovyev steps forward a bit. He's the thinner of the three of them, and shorter; about my height and build. The other two are hulking brutes, probably hired by the FSB for bulk alone. Korovyev looks smarter than they are, which is more dangerous.

"After, there will still be chaperone," Borovsky says.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

Russia gives me a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry," he says, "I tried!"

"You have had enough shenanigans to last you awhile," Petrova says pointedly. "And anyway, I don't see why you need to be alone."

"I'm sure Korovyev here is a stand up guy," I begin - Korovyev snorts. Then I give Russia a sour smile and say, "So you go have fun with him, eh?" I spin on my heel and stride away angrily.

It's not the best bluff I could've made, but it's what I could do on the spot. Behind me, I hear Russia say in a panicked voice, "Ah, Canada - wait -!" before the utterance dies in his throat and his voice is masked by at least three more, speaking in fast, angry Russian.

We're not licked yet. I just have to think up an attack strategy.

Elevators? I walk by them and one dings. My cheeks warm. No, thank you. Already tried that.

I turn the corner out of sight from Russia and his entourage, facing the escalator to the second floor, to catch my breath. I need something that has ease of egress, I think carefully, leaning on the wall. That would be ideal. And preferably two different methods of access.

The wall behind me clicks and moves backwards.

It's a door - I hadn't even noticed. It's marked 'Emergency Exit' on the push bar, which I've engaged with my backside.

But don't emergency exits typically have alarms? And remain locked unless an alarm is sounded? I wonder if Kazakhstan has had this tested in the last...ever.

Although, not so secretly, I'm glad. A stairwell, eh? That could work.

I slip inside the stairwell and climb the flight of stairs quickly. They lead to the second floor, between two conference rooms. According to India's schedule there are two on-going sessions this afternoon with the group divided, to culminate in talks with the whole group tomorrow.

This is pretty perfect, come to think of it.

I hang out here until I meet India, dragging Ukraine by the hand. "Where have you been?" he asks. "Never mind, I don't care. So! Look who I found!"

She looks sheepish and embarrassed. "You can let go," she says shyly, "I won't run away."

I say a few polite words to them both but allow India to dominate the conversation. This lets me keep more of an eye on Russia, over India's shoulder. As he and the group that follows him around slowly files into the meeting room, I send him a message from my phone.

\--

 **From: matthew.williams@csis-scsi.gc.ca  
** **To: pridstavitel.rossii@fsb.ru**  
 **Date: June 20, 15:00**  
 **Subject: plans**

 **Behind** the conference centre, there's a nice boardwalk. Since they won't let **you** be alone for more than two seconds, do you want to talk a quick walk maybe later tonight? I'll tolerate a chaperone, but only the blond guy.

\--

I watch as Russia receives it on his phone. He looks around, a bit furtively, and then finally behind him. I see him spot the door. He turns around again and meets my eyes.

I scratch my temple with one finger, and then point it down casually, as I lie to Ukraine what I've been doing for May. Oh, you know, lots of paperwork, taking care of the bear, helping plant the tulips for the festival, having sex with your little brother. _The usual_.

Russia winks in reply - I assume that means he got the point. _Go down one floor. Use the stairwell._ I'll meet him there after the meeting.

The meeting, as I find out, in Conference room A, is incredibly boring. India's there, Ukraine's there. Russia isn't, and must be with the other half of the conference goers in Conference room B.

I'd also like to note that this meeting is one of the most boring ones I've ever been to, and I go to a _lot_ of boring meetings.

Around the table are India, myself, Ukraine (don't think that escaped my attention, how India finagled that), Turkey, Sri Lanka, Mongolia, Iran, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan and China, with respective bosses. The remainder of the organisation is in Conference room B, and I overhear something about how Belarus is attempting (unsuccessfully) to dominate the discussion to try and repair her recent friction with Russia. It leads into something about 'more foreign observers' that I don't quite catch - I must not be the only uninvited one here. It's quickly followed by a comment of it being unnecessary to have _all_ one's bosses here. China seems pleased that I've come alone.

Anyway, we have a nice discussion about resources and which I only barely follow because my Chinese is not what it used to be. I wind up doodling a lot on my paper. There's something interesting said about counterterrorism but the details mostly escape me. For the most part the focus is on economic cooperation, which everybody seems happy about, China most of all.

As we finally exit at five, I watch Russia's bosses speaking with the blond man, Korovyev.

I realise...

Those cheekbones, his face. It's somehow familiar.

It's when he gesticulates wildly, looking angry ...

And his hair! Nobody has hair like that past the age of seven, a _bowl cut?_

That's _Estonia!_

It's Estonia alright, and he's mad about something.

Normally he's pretty calm, though I recall making the mistake of inquiring about Russia once in the 90's and got a lengthly rant about independence for my troubles. That's how I know what he looks like when he's pissed off. He's speaking with Petrova who is just as irate - Borovsky to his credit looks ticked.

Importantly, all three of them are mostly ignoring Russia.

I watch on as Russia pauses, hesitates, until the other two security guards are busy - he pretends to fiddle with his phone - and then he vanishes behind them and slips past the emergency exit.

Now's my chance! I turn to get to the escalator -

\- only to face my brother.

"Alfred!" I exclaim.

Now Estonia, I can understand. I don't like it, but I understand. It has to do with the code, I bet.

And he's not dumb, he must've figured out what we were really doing over the phone. Which means he was listening in.

But Alfred.

What the hell is _my brother_ doing _here?!_

I gulp, feeling caught red-handed, and am struck with an overwhelming urge to run away as fast as I can.

"Hey Mattie," says Alfred, affecting a casual tone, with a friendly smile, but I'm not convinced. His arms are folded across his chest and his eyes don't have that same impish glimmer that they usually do. This is serious. "Whatcha up to?"

"Th-that's personal," I tell him. "What're you up to, eh, what're you doing here?"

Alfred shrugs. "Same."

And that's when I realise something. Alfred here - and Estonia here too - and Al isn't exactly the world's biggest Russia-fan either - "You're in league with Estonia. That's how this is working!"

Al looks completely confused. "In - Est- _what?_ No, I haven't spoken to him since the world meeting last July."

"Then why are you here? You have no reason to be -"

"To be fair," snaps Al, "neither do you."

"- and you're interfering. You're doing it on purpose. Someone's told you and put you up to this."

"And that someone is me," finishes a voice behind me.

I turn, but I know that voice, I know its accent, its unctuous timbre putting up a front of constant over-confidence. I know who it is.

Gilbert looks at least a little bit apologetic. "Sorry, Mattie," he says, "but you've been acting very strange lately."

 _Et tu, Brute?_ I think acidly.

But then... My question remains, why is Estonia here?

I chance a look over - Russia's bosses are still in a heated conversation with Estonia, although one of the other security agents is looking around wildly, like he's lost something very important and valuable. Like a nation.

I don't have the time for this. Russia may already be a flight below. If he's smart - and I suspect he is - he'll be waiting within the stairwell until he spots me, but I can't have his bosses find him first.

"Hey, would you look at the time," I say, lifting my watchless wrist. And then I duck, roll out from between them and get to my feet to scramble away.

I can't hit the escalator - or where Russia is hiding - until I've lost my brother, and unless I get lucky he will be _very_ difficult to lose.

I dart past the lobby to the hall with the elevators and press the button, but I don't wait around for it, hoping it'll distract them. Instead I take off to the stairwell and climb a flight, two at a time. I'll have to doubleback to the escalator.

"Goddamn- Mattie!!" hisses Alfred. It echoes in the concrete of the stairwell. Well, I tried. "Get back here!"

"I'll explain it later!" I yell back.

"You'd better!" shouts Gilbert.

I sneer back from two landings above, "Not to you, you Judas."

Gilbert looks taken aback, and so crushed that I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Alfred's still on my tail. I leave the stairwell. It's a long hallway I find myself in, mostly empty, just hotel rooms. Not much to go on. About five metres to my left there's a door closing with the tail end of a cart turning the corner - I assume that room is for housekeeping. I quickly slip inside and snap it shut behind me. I'm right - it's pitch dark in here, but from what I can tell groping around, it's something of a linen closet.

If I'm lucky...

I hear Alfred's footsteps outside the door. "C'mon, Matt," he says. "What's going on here? Open up."

I don't reply.

He's bluffing. He doesn't know where I am.

The footsteps stop outside the door.

I hold my breath.

A moment passes...

Then I hear a whispered, "Goddammit," and a huff of air impatiently exhaled, and the footsteps keep walking on. I overhear Al talk to the housekeeping person who speaks no English but communicates as best she can in stilted Russian - which neither Al nor I speak too well either.

As Alfred continues to engage her, trying to overcome both their language barriers, I slip outside the door.

It closes with a click.

Alfred stops speaking.

 _Dammit!!_ My heart leaps in my chest and I try the doorknob to the housekeeping office again. It has automatically locked.

What will I do? He'll be right here - I should run -

But wait.

I have an extra tool at my disposal, don't I?

As Alfred turns down the hall I engage the invisibility, fade out of sight, and press myself against the wall.

And my brother runs right past me without even knowing I'm there.

Free! I don't have to run but I should walk quickly - I don't know how long Russia will be able to wait in the stairwell, whether he's been able to avoid detection either by his bosses or by Prussia, who I'm not certain followed my brother for very long.

There's another set of stairs down the other end of the floor, and I quickly fly down a level to the second floor. I exit, hoping that nobody will notice a door being opened by nobody.

I'm sort of in luck on that front. Nobody notices me, alright, but that's because Petrova and Borovsky are _freaking the hell out_. Korovyev - Estonia - is shouting and of the two security guards in their retinue, one looks sheepish and abashed and the other is talking angrily into a cellphone. Kazakhstan is nearby with his boss - a flat-faced pudgy man with a neck that's red from trying to burst from its shirt collar and tie confines - and both of them are trying their best to placate Petrova and Borovksy. Most people are looking on in horror - some are trying to appease Russia's bosses - and many of the other nations (Ukraine and India included) are discussing things furtively amongst themselves, behind cupped hands.

I make my way as quickly as possible to the escalator, thankfully deserted. I take the steps two at a time and in record speed get to the emergency exit stairwell and slip inside.

Russia's still there waiting for me. He's noticed the door opening and is alarmed.

I drop the cloak. He outright gasps and takes a step back. "How did -"

"No time to explain. Someone's been -"

Russia moves quickly to cover my mouth with a kiss. Out of shock, I go limper than I'd like to admit, and passively let him. He grabs me by the waist, spins me around, presses me into the wall and deepens the kiss.

Between kisses, he murmurs against my lips, "Cameras." His hand sweeps up my arm, splayed fingers on my chest, leads to my jaw where he cups my face to control the kiss better.

"My - mmph - my room?" I ask.

"Bugged," he whispers, then dives in again to tangle our tongues together.

My room is _what?!_ I'm outraged.

Well, okay, I _should_ be outraged, but I'm being expertly kissed and that makes it really hard to be anything but turned on.

"Your room?"

"Bugged too," says Russia, moving down to hide his face in the crook of my neck, where he sucks and nips the skin a bit harder than he needs to. It's embarrassingly arousing. I don't want to do this in a stairwell with _cameras watching!_ "But, is good point. I know where bugs are in my room. Not in yours."

In a voice that sounds more like a moan than I want it to, I tell him, "Lead the way?"

"No," he says, "room 409. If you can become invisible, do so. Is best. I go alone - can't be seen. These cameras -"

"They have access to footage," I realise.

"Exactly." Russia pushes away from me to look up at the stairwell. "Hmm," he says, deciding. It's uncomfortably cold where he was pressed against me. "I will take stairs. Fourth floor, remember."

I nod. "Got it."

He darts away, his long coat and scarf flying behind him, as he takes the stairs two at a time. I switch on the disappearing act.

I leave the security of the stairwell only after I hear the echoes of a door open, four floors above me. If there's anybody on the opposite side, I don't want to draw attention until after Russia's out of the stairwell.

Sure enough, there's a security guard - not one of Russia's, must be one of Kazakhstan's - waiting outside and he says something gruff when I depart. He looks puzzled - the door couldn't just have opened on its own, could it?

But there's nobody there.

I slip by him easily and make my way to the escalator to the second floor.

Second floor is a buzz of noises and calamity. Every nation I can see is shouting - India and Ukraine appear to have joined the fray, and both of them have completely forgotten about me. (For once, good!) Petrova is apoplectic and Borovsky looks like he wants to strangle Estonia. Jesus, you'd think they'd lost the Holy Grail, not the country they're in charge of. They're supposed to trust him at least a little! The fact that they obviously don't is more than a bit screwed up.

My brother and Prussia are on the other side, talking quietly amongst themselves.

I don't know how I missed it before. Al's not in league with Estonia at all, he's in it with _Gil_. Or maybe Gil brought it up with him. Who even knows.

No, wait. _I_ know, because how else did _Prussia_ get a hold of the rumour that I was looking for things about Turkey? I only asked America and England, and England told me he wasn't the one who had contacted Prussia. It must've been my brother!

And it explains their mention of extra foreign observers here - I'll bet America blustered his way in enough to permit Prussia as his guest.

And they sure were chummy over Thanksgiving! Apparently I'm not the only one who uses parties to schmooze.

 _What_ is my brother _doing?!_

I'll have to shelve that for a later time. For the moment, I lose them all and find the elevators. With everybody else so distracted, I easily take one to the fourth floor. In the cacophony, nobody even seems to hear the ding of the cabins or questions why one is opening and nobody is getting on or off.

The fourth floor is relatively quiet so far. I don't know how long we've got. I imagine they'll figure to check Russia's room eventually - although, perhaps not. Since they clearly don't trust him, maybe Petrova and Borovsky will assume he's anywhere but where he should be, in his room. With his pretend-boyfriend.

I knock very softly on door 409.

It opens a crack. The chain-lock is engaged. "No housekeeping, please," says Russia stiffly, and then moves to shut the door again.

I block the door with my shoe. "It's me," I whisper.

Russia's eyes dart back and forth frantically, panicking, but then he nods. I move my foot, and he closes the door. I hear the slide of the chain lock as he undoes it.

The door opens wide. Russia looks dishevelled - like he's run up four flights of stairs - and his shirt is open the first few buttons. He looks a lot like he did in the picture he sent me. Inexplicably, my mouth waters.

Jesus, I have to get it together!

Russia says, "Come in," but as he does so, he rubs his eyes, and then scratches his ears. It's a practiced motion that looks perfectly casual. It makes my heart sink. It means there are cameras, and microphones.

How am I going to get answers out of him like this?


	12. Chapter 9

9\.  _(kazakhstan, continued; july, and the rest of the year)_

"I'm glad you came by!" says Russia. His mood has brightened a lot from his earlier obvious discomfort at having  _anybody_ at the door. I suspect his change of heart is for the cameras.

"They didn't make it easy for me," I admit. "Had to give my brother the slip."

"I understand!" he says. "Now, I believe I promised you dinner?"

I check my watch. It's nearly 6pm; that's adequate for dinner-time. "Do you think they'll let you out?"

"Not without chaperone."

I scowl. I want a chaperone even less, now that I know it'd be another country. I get the impression Estonia would be able to see through little ruses like public displays of affection. After all, he's one of us; and he's got access to our timestamp emails. So he knows this entire thing is faked. Besides, last time Russia was wearing a wire at his bosses' behest. I've no doubt Estonia's wearing one too. We're never alone.

"Anyway," Russia continues, "I would have to ask permission. I told them, perhaps nice cafe or restaurant, there is India Gate, they have good reviews, and they said perhaps not, what if shashlik from street vendor, and I said this is not very classy, and they said shut up, it's shashlik or no dinner at all!"

"I see," I reply dryly.

"And also, no matter where we eat, we will have to wait for them here before leaving. Soon they will realise we have returned here," says Russia. He sidles up next to me and bites his lip coyly. "I could, ah, make waiting less boring for you," he offers. Then he gets down on his knees.

After all that racing around this hotel? I'm amazed he can't smell me through my pants. (Though I'll admit that the sight of big, scary, Russia on his knees in front of me has me more than a bit interested.) "I'm, uh. I'm not - but, uh... r-really sweaty, and um. You really don't have -"

"Ah!" Russia leaps to his feet again. I appear to have hit a bull's-eye. "Yes, this is excellent idea!" he says. "You know, shower is good in this room, I used it earlier."

I'm not yet seeing where he's going with this, but I nod and make my way over to the bathroom.

Russia is right behind me, on my heels. When I turn around to ask why, he says with a shrug, "Perhaps you like company?" He smiles very wide, his eyes twinkling with glee. "Like I said, it makes waiting less boring."

It hits me suddenly: there's no way they bugged the bathroom with a video feed, did they? I imagine most KGB grunts aren't paid enough to watch that kind of footage.

So Russia follows me into the washroom. I close the door and mouth, _are you sure?_

He nods.

... And then he removes his shirt.

I stop in utter shock, staring at his naked chest, unable to look anywhere else. He looks at me like I'm a complete idiot and then points to the shower.

 _Really??_ I mouth. We don't actually have to, do we?

Russia rolls his eyes. He reaches past me into the shower stall to turn on the water. Then, as he's unbuckling his belt, he jerks his head towards the shower angrily, as if to say, _c'mon, let's go! you're getting in there like it or not!_

I don't have to be here. I don't have to take this!

But we've come all this way. Apparently... we _do_ actually have to. I don't believe what I'm seeing.

Russia shoves his pants and underwear down in one go and steps out of them, fully nude. Then he turns away to hop in the shower.

I try not to look. I really, really try.

(His ass is magnificent by the way. Hockey'll do that to you.)

It's just a shower. It's just a shower. It's just his _naked body_ in close proximity to mine under hot running water - stupid European relaxed etiquette on nudity _oh for god's sake!!_

"Canada," calls Russia from inside the shower stall. "Are you coming in?" He pops his head out past the shower curtain at the side and tuts. "You are so slow! Not even undressed!"

"Uhh," I stammer, not sure where to begin.

"Don't worry," he says. "I make it worth your while." Then he shifts the shower curtain aside enough to give me a view of his upper body, glistening wet, the water sluicing over his muscles tantalisingly. My mouth goes very suddenly dry and I can't seem to focus on anything else but his strong arms, his pectoral muscles, the pinkish nipples standing stiff-peaked. (It's not cold in here. How much can he possibly fake?)

He's noticed me watching him and shoots me a wicked grin.

I recognise this pose from the pictures he sent me, and suddenly everything I felt while looking at them - attraction, curiosity, desire, excitement - comes rushing back full force. I have to distract myself by thinking of more mundane things - unsharpened pencils on my desk, drab carpet of my office building - while stripping out of my work clothes. I don't want to walk into there with an erection and give him the wrong idea.

No. I came for answers. I am getting answers.

I push back the curtain and climb into the shower after him.

Russia smiles, then crooks his finger towards me, beckoning me closer. When our faces are near enough together, and near enough to the water, Russia whispers, very quietly, "Good. Is it not convincing to bathe with one's lover? But to linger in a washroom with no reason, is not convincing."

"The water," I realise.

"I know which kind of microphone they use for this room. Is not directed, so is not strong enough to pick up signal from background noise, if noise is sufficient." And the raining of water on the shower floor is loud indeed. They'll never be able to hear us.

This is smart. As long as I keep my damn dick down long enough not to embarrass me completely. That won't be easy, given that whispering like this requires Russia and I to be very near, in each other's personal space, our bodies in full contact, our faces inches apart. I can feel the exhalation of his breath on my cheeks, I can feel the warmth from his body on mine...

We have to get to business!

"Estonia's here," I say. "He's been watching us. Monitoring our emails -"

Russia sighs. "I know."

"You - what? You _know?_ You could've told me!"

"I didn't - I did not know he was doing this, until this summit! But of course, I recognise him. He lives a century with me, a pair of sunglasses, it does nothing. Korovyev - hah!" Russia spits. "He thinks himself a funny man. He has poor taste in jokes." I neglect to mention that on a number of occasions, I've heard Estonia say the exact same thing about Russia. "I believe he is working for my bosses."

From what I've seen, I'm inclined to agree. "But he's independent."

"As he so very much loves to proclaim."

"And why would he do that, anyway?"

"As to that," Russia murmurs, "I have no idea. It is strange, as you say. Then again, I do not trust my bosses. Are they plotting with him to take me down? Is it a plan of his making entirely, and he has enlisted their help? I do not know."

"That sounds pretty paranoid," I tell him. "Maybe they're not nice, but they're your bosses." Russia is silent a moment and looks away. This worries me. "Do you really have reason to believe they want to harm you? You _elected_ them!"

"I don't know what to think," says Russia. "I know that sometimes humans do very, very stupid things."

He may be right. He knows them more than I do, and so far I think they're pretty creepy people. "What do you think they're doing?"

Russia shakes his head. "They don't tell me their plans, certainly," he whispers. "But I have my reasons to believe. I can recognise less and less easily when someone is on my land. One of us, in my home. Like other day, Belarus was over for diplomatic meeting and I had _no idea_ until I met her in meeting room. And my borders, my edges... is all fuzzier now. I cannot explain. I used to know, exactly where. And now I don't. This is one.

"It has been some time since I have been permitted access to any informations, as they do - you know how such regimes love paperwork - I get none of it. In fact there was something passed, several years ago. Saying I am no longer needed for signatures. Last time I was able to look at this document there was loophole saying constitution was exempt. But I don't think it is so anymore. This is two."

"You can't even access your own constitution?" I ask incredulously. It's a constitution! It's supposed to be publicly available, online!

"All of my activities are monitored. Of course, if I attempt, they do not outright _say_ I am not permitted, but they question me rigorously, why must I know? And I must give no less than five valid reasons why. It used to be one reason. Before that it was _no_ reasons. Canada, I have no access to anything of my own making.

"And three..." Russia looks more and more worried. "There is three, and three is..."

"Is what?" I ask gently.

"I know that what they do has its effect upon me, because I can _feel_ it." He draws his face nearer and looks me deep in the eye. He looks terrified and his lower lip trembles. I reach up to hold him firmly around the shoulders to try and steady him. "You understand? I _feel_ things. I forget things, there are times I do not know where I am, where I have been all afternoon, I don't remember, like I have lost consciousness. I shake." He gulps. "I have not felt this way in quite some time. Last time I did, I had lost significant portion of territory, my government changed, my name changed, and ... and it was too much _change_ at once, I cannot even bear thinking of it long!"

"The fall of the Soviet Union," I supply.

"Precisely," he says. "And before this, its equally unstable inception." He wrings his fingers together. "Some of us may accept change very well. France does this well, though it takes him time. From what you sent me, it seems England does _very_ well. I do not."

"No, neither do I," I say, and I don't. In some ways I still deal with the mess that was France versus England, played out on my land. I've gotten a lot better at it in the years since, and I'm more resilient than I ever was, but it's not something I enjoy. (It's not something France enjoys either. I remember how he was. Even if Russia thinks he weathers storms with grace, I know he doesn't. It's not something any of us really like.)

"England!" Russia continues. "Why, England loses much control over his entire empire and yet he remains great bastion of strength! And me, I have threat and I panic, like this. I cannot do it. Ah, I cannot do it alone!"

I rub my thumb back and forth on his biceps where I grip him. "It's okay," I murmur. "It's okay, it's okay, I'm here." Russia whimpers and crawls closer to me, helplessly, his head falling on my shoulder. His arms encircle me and for a moment I let him remain there, clutching me close with ice-cold shivering fingers as the hot water rains above us, louder than my soft whispers in his ears.

"This is why I asked about Turkey," Russia murmurs against my skin. "Him, in particular. Other informations, as you know, they are useful, but Turkey. As for him, I actually saw it myself. They told me - please understand, these are foggy memories for me - but I remember them saying something about Turkey being unstable, and not necessarily economically so. Though, yes, that comes from being in a great war but it was also... _mentally_."

"How do you know? There wasn't much in the papers I gave you about this," I note.

"Indeed there was not. But this does not mean it was not there. They took me to see him, once. His new republic was not interested in our red ideologies and so, he was to be no friend of mine. And they used him to justify what they had done to me - you see, I knew a bit about my own condition, why I could not think so clearly, and I guessed what it was. They tried to blame it on former government. They say to me, see, look what happens when you have absolute rule, and look how awful he is doing now. There was much of this propaganda."

"I'm sure," I say.

"But he _was_ acting very strange. He shook, he was paranoid, he saw things. He did not recognise me at first, and when he did, when we were left alone, he told me he could not take much more, living like that. You know, we were not always on opposite sides, in history. Sometimes we are even friends. And is difficult, as empire, being large, being alone, being ... what we are. Humans, they do not understand. Only we understand."

I nod. "I know what you mean."

"This is why I think, how strange that documents you sent made no mention of his mind. He lost land, government, name, all at once, that is much change, would there not be as much instability? So I became worried. Canada, this has already happened twice to me, and I think - I think each time it does, I derail more. I can't tell you how I know this, because those who are mad ... we do not always know we are mad, yes? And is only after when I come to find, I have gaps in my memory, I cannot explain certain things about state and governance, and after such episodes, I have less powers and my bosses have more, and I don't like it!"

"You don't like losing control?"

"Name me one of us who does! So. Sometimes I think they do to me on purpose, to get things they want done quickly, without me to say no."

I'm starting to understand a little. "You're saying -"

"Exactly so. I think they have figured out about us, how we work, I think they know how we are in some times of trouble. And I believe my bosses exploit this for their benefit, at my detriment."

That's horrifying, but it makes sense. If our bosses knew how we worked, they'd - well! They could manipulate us as they wanted to suit their own agenda. And I'm not naive enough to think they'd do it for the good of the whole, either.

I make a mental note to keep mum about all this to Colin. He doesn't need to know how Russia is weakened, that's true, but he needs to know even less how beings like me can be manipulated. What bosses don't need to know, they don't. And if that means the bosses remain a bit mystified by the existence of nations? Maybe a little mystery helps!

Russia continues. "This is why I am glad we have this, between us," he says, and I blush. "No, really! It helps. You are here, it helps. Someone like me, yes?"

"Your bosses must by now have suspected something about me," I reason. "I don't want to drag in politics on my end." But I'll do it. I have friends in high places - I think of India, Prussia, my brother. I'll do it if I have to, and I'll be fine.

"I am nearly certain of it," Russia says. "We will have to be scarce after this, so we will have to make the best of our time here." His arm loops around my waist and gently caresses the small of my back. Reflexively, I arch away from such a gentle, tickling touch... so it drives me forward, deeper into him. "I don't know what will come next. I think... I think they will be very angry with me after today."

"And Estonia knows all our codes."

"Yes. I will have to send you a new one."

How he plans on doing _that_ , I have no idea. His hand drifts a little lower, and cups the curve of my ass. "Russia... listen," I say, pushing him a bit away.

"What?" he asks. "You do not want? Or maybe..." Russia backs up, his hands raised in defence, and looks as though something's dawned on him. "It is true, I did not enquire, perhaps you have someone already, you don't appreciate me helping myself as I have -"

"I-it's not that," I reply. I haven't got anybody - unless you count Russia.

He pouts. "Of course, I know, I ask so much of you, is unfair. It is why I don't mind so much giving, you know, to you? I like it!" He moves closer and bends his head to my shoulder. Between the kisses he plants delicately on my skin, he says, "I like it very much. I feel freer, my thoughts come more quickly, fog is lighter. The more time I spend with you, I am more myself." His fingers push a lock of my hair behind my ear, curl around it, then dip down to my jawline where he traces his fingers up to my lips. "Please, Canada."

"I told you," I reply, moving my lips against his fingertips, "you can call me Matt."

He says nothing, and continues kissing me, moving to my neck. He sucks there at the base, on the side, where it meets the shoulder. It's a pretty tender spot to begin with and the little flicks of tongue he gives it don't help any. My knees feel weak and I lean into him for support. I clear my throat but it comes out a strangled crackle. Once it works again, I say, "I can't help thinking you're trying to distract me on purpose."

"Can you blame me?" he murmurs. "I would rather think of anything else, even work, and I have you here to think about, is infinitely better than work."

"B-but I don't see how this is helping you!"

"Don't you?" He pulls back once again, only his upper body. Our lower halves, from waist below, remain touching and he keeps an arm around my waist. Why must everything with him be so damn ... _intimate?!_ "Dorogoi, do you not really? Ask yourself, why was it helpful for Turkey to have someone nearby? One of us? We have certain effect upon each other, and especially you, you are well off, and extremely resilient -" he strokes my arm - "stronger than you look -"

"And it doesn't bother you that I've my brother to thank for that?"

Russia considers and nods. "Yes, and England too, and he and I rarely reach compromise. But you are not them. And having you here, next to me, like this? ah, you don't know how helpful it is!"

I can't meet his eyes. My cheeks flush warm to my shoulders.

"I could show appreciation, hmm?" He grabs me by the chin and tilts my face up gently.

"That isn't necessary," I whisper, taking his hand by the wrist. He freezes and waits. "I don't want you to think I expect these sorts of - you're not to whore yourself for my help."

Russia gives me a sad sort of not-smile. "I would not mind."

"Why me, anyway?"

He turns his hand around and laces our fingers together, our hands at face-level suspended in midair like the moment. His lips are so close to mine - I could just lean over, so easily.

And then the spell is completely broken. "Well, you are ... not unattractive, and you are quiet, and nobody pays any attention to you, so I thought -"

I rip my hand away but remember to keep my voice to a whisper. "Oh thank you so _very_ much," I snap.

Russia doesn't seem to understand how that kind of blunt answer is _not_ what I was looking for. "But really!" he insists, "Is perfect plan! I don't want you to give me away. If I had picked anybody else they would expose me, long ago!"

"Pretty exposed as is, don't you think?" I try to rub my hand free from the lingering warmth of his skin, but it doesn't work. Every part of me that's been in contact with him is hypersensitive, super-aware of his presence. And though I'm pissed, I still want him to touch me again. That only pisses me off more! I shouldn't be so _easy!_ "You've gone and told _me_ all about your bosses."

"Alright, alright!" Russia shrugs. "But you won't give me away, will you? I was right, was I not? Is good choice! And you manage to be invisible on command. Neat trick."

True, but... "I'm not even sure I can control that too well." Although it has been much better, much easier, since Walpurgisnacht.

"But you trust me, yes?" I suck a breath in. "You like me?"

Those are two completely different questions. "Well, I -"

Russia grins like a cat with cream. "I know you do, one part of you does," he says. Then he puts his hand on my hip and pushes himself forward, with his thigh between mine, thrusting his cock into my hip.

I mean to push him off me, I can't think clearly with him so close! And he knows that. He's doing this on purpose. "Russia, please -" But when I put my hands on his chest I don't wind up doing much pushing.

"Must I say it? Ah..." he murmurs, then takes my hands in his. "I like you, more than I like other nations. Are you satisfied? You are kind, honest, good person, and at last you are handsome, I do not deny something so obvious."

I can't speak. I'm too flustered to speak. My mouth is open but I can't make it work.

"And I asked _you_ for help, not others, because I knew you would say yes. Not everybody would help fellow country-men, and fewer still would help me. But you would, I knew you would."

"Y-you know me that well, eh?" I mutter breathlessly.

He raises my hand to his lips and kisses my fingertips. "You have always been like this, Canada. I have always thought, that one, we two could be good friends." He takes the fingertip in his mouth completely - I can't look away, spellbound by his lips - he sucks it, and I swear I can feel that tongue all the way down to my toes. "We could be such good friends."

I shouldn't be so _easy_. I shouldn't want him, I shouldn't do this, I -

I _don't care._

And I'm the one who draws him down to kiss him.

We're pinned together, attached at the mouth, and he reaches up with his hands to keep me close, holding me in his arms. He deepens the kiss; open-mouthed, hot and wet, his mouth slides against mine. He's being forceful this time, and I love it but it's hard to breathe.

I back up a little with a grunt and Russia takes it as a sign to instead kiss down my neck, his hands at my back, pressed against my skin and stroking with splayed fingers. This is nice. More than nice, this is wonderful, it feels completely different when it's one of us - it's true what he said, we have effects upon each other! A faint moan slips free - clearly I fail at keeping completely quiet.

"Let me do something for you," he says, "I can show you how happy you make me!"

His _cock_ is pressed against my hip. "I can already tell how happy I make you," I blurt. One of those things you say when you're trying - and failing - at injecting levity into a serious situation.

I know I'm exactly that hard too, I can feel it, I can feel his thigh move against me, I can feel him rub against me. I'm so turned on I feel like I'm gonna explode.

Russia slips down in front of me, kneeling with his beautiful big thighs spread wide - I can see his hard cock between them as he brings a hand down to touch himself. He's at perfect height to kiss my hip and this he mouths at wetly and drags his tongue along my hot skin.

"Please," I groan. "Oh, please, yes." I can't say anything more. I've been thinking about little else than this since the hotel room in Italy. "Please do it, _please_."

With a smile, Russia takes the head of my cock in his mouth, working his tongue over the glans, sucking hard, and I practically see stars. "Oh thank _christ_ ," I gasp.

Hotter than the water from the showerhead, hotter than the air in the bathroom (and it's already a sauna in here) the sensation of Russia's lips around the crown, moving forward, taking more of me into his mouth, paired with the feel of his tongue, have me arching against the shower wall, scrambling for purchase that doesn't exist.

Russia takes one of my hands and places it on his own head, to direct him. And so I bury my fingers in his soft, thick, wet hair, as he takes me in as far as he can. The rest he wraps his hand around. The fingers of his left hand are tight on the root of my cock, his head unfortunately blocking the view of his right hand on himself, as he jacks himself off below. I love it when he does that, I want to watch him but I want his mouth on me a little bit more.

He moans around me, then pulls off and grabs the soap.

"What are you doing?" I ask, in a thin, shaky voice.

"Don't worry," he says, as he takes the bar. He coats his hands with it and replaces it on the dish. "You said you were not clean, yes?"

"Uh -"

"I will help!" he says with a wicked grin.

That doesn't mean I wanted him to _wash_ me - but then he goes and distracts me with his mouth again and I forget about any complaints. Who could take issue with this? He makes me feel like I'm _flying_. I relax against the shower wall and twist my fingers deeper into his hair.

Then he brings a wet, soap-slick hand up to fondle my balls. My eyes fly open in shock - nobody's ever touched me here before, it's shockingly, terrifyingly intimate - and the not-so-work-safe conversation we had on the phone replays in my mind. But it's hot, and it feels brilliant, and I'm so turned on - I forget about whether I can trust him and spread my legs obediently. What damage can it really do? (Please, let him touch me more...) "Yes," I exhale. "God yes, mmmph, fuck."

Russia tilts his head like he's kissing me to get more of me in his mouth. Meanwhile he slips a finger behind my balls... and then slides it backwards to my ass.

I hold my breath -

He traces across the hole, as he licks the underside of my cock inside his beautiful hot mouth, and his eyes slip closed.

"Oh shit, oh fuck," my legs tremble, it's hard to stand, "that's - ngh, Ru- _Vanya_."

It doesn't hurt - it's only one finger, and he still has me in his mouth - but it feels a little weird. Strange weird but good weird. It doesn't feel like I expected but the thought that he is _inside me_ , my heart is racing, shit this is _so good_. Both my hands are in Russia's hair now, and I thrust, just a little, gently, into his mouth as he slips a second finger inside.

He drives them deeper now, deeper still, and I realise what he intends to do with this and steel myself for it -

\- the shock rockets through me -

\- it's still not enough, it still takes me by surprise and has me gasping as he strokes again and I arch and stiffen in his mouth. I thrust in harder, more irregularly, fucking his mouth on one end and being fucked by his fingers on another. And all the while I can _feel_ his hardness against me as he frots himself mindlessly on my ankle, feel how tensely the fingers that aren't up my ass grip my thigh. I want this for so much longer, let me stay like this with him forever, but even as I think it I feel myself slipping farther into the pleasure.

I'd let him. I'd let him fuck me. I want him to.

"Fuck," I tell him, "oh _fuck_ , I'm gonna come, you're gonna make me -" He doesn't pull off. If anything, he takes me in deeper on both ends.

I bite my lip hard to stifle my cries and release helplessly into his mouth, tightening hard on his fingers.

Russia pulls off and spits into the drain. I'm too lightheaded to be offended. And then he kisses my hip, laves his tongue across it, lower still to my groin. He hasn't come, I realise, he's still jacking himself off, although less idly, now with more intent, his eyes clenched shut and his lips parted, panting. He'd be good with just this, I suspect - on his knees, with his hand alone.

But that's not very nice, and Russia has been so nice to me.

"What do you want?" I ask.

Russia looks up. He studies my face.

"Anything you want," I whisper, "you can have it."

He then gets to his feet - awkwardly, he's a little stiff - and comes close to wrap his arms around me. "Like this," he says, holding me, "I like it like this." He's way too physically close for me normally but orgasm has a way of making me more lenient, almost passive. I let him press himself against me and touch me tenderly.

"Keep your thighs together, tight," he instructs.

I don't push him off. It makes me shiver and my fingers scramble to hold Russia and keep him close, but I don't push him off. He thrusts his hard cock between my thighs, nestled up next to my dick, still super sensitive, as his breaths become gasps in my ears. I find myself stirring at the touch on the most sensitive parts of my body - give me a few minutes, I might be so inclined to go again. I might want to see what it's like to have more of him inside me.

These are such dangerous thoughts. I hardly know him.

But there's something about the way that our skin slips past, something about how our bodies fit together! _This_ is so perfect. _This_ has me excited and moaning and the sound reverberates sharply off the tile.

For a moment I worry I've gone too far. After a half hour of whispering, it's a shock. They'll hear this, loud and clear.

But it seems to turn Russia on even more. "Ah yes," he says, his voice taut and his touch on my skin fervent and unbearably passionate, "let me hear you, I like to hear you! yes, aah -"

I moan again for him and with a strangled cry he comes, thrusting his cock between my thighs _hard_ , his hips stuttering their motion.

He waits a moment, with his cheek against mine, our bodies pressed together, panting in my ear and stroking my shoulder, as his breathing returns to normal and his heartbeat slows.

"They are outside waiting for us," he whispers at last.

Of course they are. It was only a matter of time.

"Is Estonia with them?" I ask.

"He is there," says Russia. "Let us go pay him a visit." But after we wipe ourselves off and before we leave the sanctuary of the shower, Russia pulls me to him once more. "Why _are_ you doing this? You don't have to," he insists.

"Because you need it. Because you asked me." Because it's _you_. "I don't know, pick one."

He tilts my face up again and kisses me. "Thank you. Whatever reason, thank you."

"O-of course," I whisper, my heart pounding twice as fast. I have to try really, really hard not to blush. Who taught Russia how to give such a good puppy-dog eyes, anyway?

We exit the shower, dry off and redress. He gives me one last, longing look before we leave the washroom. I nod, and he opens the door to his hotel room.

Russia's bosses and the two security guards are there waiting for us, as is Estonia. Everyone looks ticked. I'm starting to think that's their default expression and they can't help their resting asshole face.

"Have you had your fun?" asks Borovsky. "Gotten all pruny from shower?"

"I'm sure you'll check out the audio feed later and hear exactly how much fun we had," I snap.

Petrova looks disgusted at the mere mention. Russia, beside me, goes beet red.

Estonia, behind both Russia's bosses, lowers his sunglasses and peers over the tops. It's him alright, those are his eyes. He gives us both a scrutinising look and narrows his eyes particularly at me. Then he sets his shades back upon the bridge of his narrow nose and becomes impassive.

"Well!" Borovsky claps. "Dinner, then. You didn't come all this way for nothing. Excellent shashlik cart outside the hotel."

Shashlik, as it turns out, is something like a shish kebab but more tangy than spicy. The cart vendor does a good job of diffusing the seriously uncomfortable situation we present him with: two men, apparently in a relationship, accompanied by two angry bosses and three angry suits. Or maybe it's that Russia's bosses worked up an appetite impatiently waiting for us. Well, after a few skewers apiece, everybody looks a little bit happier.

I do stress the word 'little'. Russia's bosses are still scowling up a storm. And either that salt-vinegar dressing on the cucumber salad is very overpowering, or Estonia remains unimpressed by all of us, but unwilling to say anything about it, or in fact _leave_.

When we've finished eating, and have passed a gloriously awkward half hour walking on the boardwalk outside the hotel, Russia says, by way of conclusion, "Thank you for coming to see me!"

I'm under no illusions. They've bought us dinner, and that's all we'll be permitted, and I'm metaphorically being shown the door. In fact I might as well go home tomorrow, I don't think they'll let Russia out of their sights for days. And I've gotten more than what I came here for.

"Of course," I murmur. "It's no trouble."

Petrova snorts. "More than twenty hours flight, and you say is no trouble."

I give her a grin that looks more like a sneer before I parrot something my own boss has said to me recently. "Don't forget, time means nothing to _our kind_ anyway." I swear I can see the steam from her ears; Petrova doesn't like being mocked.

Judging from the set of his thin lips, neither does Estonia.

Well, tough.

Russia slides closer to me, to the security guards' obvious discomfort. "Don't I get goodnight kiss?" They both look aghast and throw panicked looks back to Borovsky and Petrova, but when neither of them do anything, the guards back off.

He stoops slightly to kiss me on the mouth.

It's... it's funny what the touch of his lips does to me now. Everything stops, everything drops away, I forget about anybody else and it's so easy to sink into him, into his touch - his arms come around me and loop gently around me, one around my shoulders, one at the small of my back, pressing me closer. Happily I oblige.

For a moment, that's all that exists to me, the way he presses against me, the way he feels in my arms. Behind my closed eyelids I am dizzy and spinning. It floods me with warmth, heat on its heels - his tongue in my mouth - I want him all over again -

Someone coughs.

Russia breaks the kiss stiffly. He clears his throat and wipes his lips. "Yes," he says, "well, goodnight."

"Goodnight," I reply breathily, feeling unsteady upon my feet.

His bosses look disgusted - both Petrova _and_ Borovsky, and they and the security guards have looked away.

Only Estonia watches us now. He removes his sunglasses, keeping eye contact with me. Then he shakes his head and wags a finger at us.

Of course he knows it's faked. What an asshole; he doesn't need to remind me what he knows!

I'm so tempted to give him a finger back. But it's a wiser choice to walk away, so that's what I do.

\--

The world meeting that year takes place in early July, as it often does. Nobody moves it back or forward this time, and I spend my birthday at home with a day of festivities and the fireworks at ten on the hill.

Russia doesn't call.

In fact nobody calls, but I'm used to that, and it doesn't bother me nearly as much as it once did. Like I said, today fills me with distractions and if my family or what passes for it wants in, they know where I am.

But Russia's absence worries me. And, if I'm being entirely truthful, hurts a little.

America, as usual, has a big birthday bash with a barbeque planned for the 4th. I'm invited, but I don't attend. From the way his emails have sounded lately, he's not been truly happy with me either.

He knows I'm hiding something. And I know he's been talking to Gil - _Prussia_ \- behind my back. Scumbag of a best friend.

So the world meeting - which Estonia is hosting, a last-minute switch from Colombia - I honestly expect to be business as usual. I say my requisite hellos to everybody, I hug my brother in the usual one-armed not-too-close-though friendly fraternal embrace, and I side-eye Prussia something wicked from across the hall. Germany, beside him, seems to wonder why it is Prussia isn't around and about as he often is, enjoying the company of others when he has the chance, but he doesn't say anything about it and chooses instead to watch me carefully from across the meeting table during moments of inactivity.

Russia is nowhere.

When Germany asks about it - nothing escapes him - Petrova and Borovsky, who are in attendance, claim that the Russian representative sends his regards but has unavoidable domestic business to be taken care of. Personal things. They make it clear it's not to be argued and Germany, wisely, drops the subject.

So a day of meetings elapses and nobody really talks to me - I don't really want them to, I just want to fade away and be left alone, because if Russia isn't here then that's bad news and I don't like it much at all.

Imagine my surprise when Estonia tracks me down.

"What do _you_ want?" I ask, my voice guarded and measured. Colin is nearby and looks somewhat interested in the proceedings.

"Here," says Estonia. "For you." He reaches into the inside breast pocket of his well-tailored blazer and pulls out a small envelope.

My heart leaps for joy. He _did_ remember!

"From me," Estonia clarifies. "Later, you open it."

And my heart sinks again. I try not to let it show and stuff the envelope in my pocket.

"Thank you," I reply neutrally. Estonia nods and leaves.

I can't open it in my hotel room. Might be bugged. Don't trust Petrova and Borovsky and this meeting is being hosted by Estonia, who at times during the Cold War had entire buildings bugged at the behest of the KGB. He's no stranger to espionage. So I keep it with me, on my person at all times, until we have left downtown Tallinn and are safe back in Ottawa.

At home, with Kuma-critter nearby, I open it. It's a birthday card, which I ignore for the moment for the envelope.

Along the inside seams of the envelope is written in pencil, _please no more messages, is too dangerous_. And, _Woland approaches_. It's Russia's hand.

"That's a nice card," says Kuma-thingit, looking at the birthday card. It has a picture of cartoon elephants above which is written  _rõõmsat sünnipäeva_ which looks like gibberish to me but I assume actually means happy birthday.

"It's from Estonia," I snap angrily, "and he's proven so far that he can't be trusted."

"That's not true," says Kuma.

I pause.

Up until now, Kuma-whatever's had a strange way of knowing what's going to happen. Knowing where the messages are. I didn't even know he could _read_. He doesn't give me answers but he does give me clues.

I pick up the card and open it. The script is neat, clipped and cursive.

_I sincerely hope you got what you came for. I further hope he's giving you something at all. Because he's under house arrest for the next ten years._

_So tell me, was it worth it?_

_You have known me over a century and I have always been on your side._

_Are you sure the same is true of him?_

_-E_

My blood freezes.

Ten years. House arrest. Ten. _Years._

Can they even do that?

If they can...

Colin can't know about this!

I suddenly regret telling Petrova time means little to us.

"What do I do?" I ask.

The answer is apparently clear to Kuma-thing. "You help," he says.

"Which one?"

Kuma-thing nudges the card with his muzzle, snuffling it. He ignores the envelope. Then he sits back and says plainly, "The one you can trust."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing in the great tradition of updating pornographic fanfiction starring my country on my country's national day, here's some more Canada getting laid!
> 
> This concludes the first 1/3 or so of Mir that I have planned. That doesn't mean I'm taking a hiatus though! I'll try to have the next chapter up before August.
> 
> Thank you for reading, kudosing, commenting, reblogging my updates, gosh absolutely everything!! I am just so happy to know that people are still reading and enjoying this strange little fic and I really love hearing from you. :3


	13. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Canada Day just ain't a Canada Day without updating Mir. Preferably with actual smut, but not this chapter. Soon, tho!

10\. _(july to june)_

A year passes and nothing really happens. I go to work, I do some work, I go home. Lather, rinse, repeat. Even Kuma-something-or-other seems to pick up on my mood, because he's stopped bothering me for food so insistently, knowing I've got little patience for antics. Lisa has begun stopping by my cubicle to pat Kuma, since I never leave him with her anymore. I don't have anywhere important to go.

I think Colin thinks that Russia and I broke up, because he takes a very superior attitude to everything. But if he has figured out why I'm no longer badgering him for tickets to far-off places to visit a boyfriend, he doesn't comment on it.

I pretend I'm not checking my email every two seconds for something from Russia and, for the most part, after September I've really convinced myself of it.

I haven't forgotten him. But I don't know what there is I can do.

December this year is strained. I don't go to either Noel avec la Francophonie _or_ Commonwealth Christmas. Neither France nor England are particularly happy about that but I haven't been great company these past few months. Not even when America comes up for the afternoon of the 26th, bringing me some leftover turkey sandwiches that his boss' mom made.

I work to rule. Christmas, then Russia's birthday, then New Year's passes, with not a peep from the East.

It seems my life is pretty boring without Russia in it.

\--

My brother calls me in early February. I pick up the phone and it's "Yo, bro!" screamed in my ear.

"Uh, hey Al," I reply, "what's up?"

"Not your attitude, that's for sure! You been moping around for months, so I'm comin' to visit. How's a week? A week's good? It's good, right?"

It pisses me off when he does that, assume that I'm not busy! ...I mean, I'm _not_ , but it's the principle of the thing! "Maybe I have stuff to do!" I complain.

"Dude, I had my people hack your agenda. You're walking the bear and pretending problems don't exist. You can still do that stuff with me!"

I sigh. My brother is a pushy sort of person by nature and he's not giving up. "That's a violation of privacy -"

"Yeah, well, I had help. A little birdie told me you were feeling down." I glare. A 'little birdie', yeah, I'll bet. _Thanks_ , Prussia. I should've known better than to think America had read between the lines in my actions, or inactions.

So Al comes over. I pick him up from the airport. Kuma-thing-whatsit is excited to see him and Al's excited right back, treating him like a gigantic teddy bear. To be fair, I do that too, and I'm only sore at Kuma-thing's sheer delight. Traitor.

"Say, let's take the scenic route," Al says.

Uh-oh.

Without protest, I pull off onto the highway leading the long way around to my place in Ottawa. "Whatever you're gonna say," I tell him, "don't think I haven't heard it already from my boss."

"Or me," Kuma says, in Al's lap.

"You know," he says thoughtfully, twiddling Kuma's fur with one hand and scratching him behind the ear with the other, "don't get me wrong on this, but when you started, like ... _dating_ him... First of all I could barely believe it! You two've never been that close."

That's true enough. I open my mouth to reply but he beats me to it. "Look, I don't care, alright? If you're dating him. I _don't care_ , Mattie. This isn't some kinda ... Romano and Juliet thing here -"

" _Romeo_ ," I correct.

"Yeah, 's what I said! The point is, I am not gonna police you and tell you who to date. That is not what brothers do and _so_ not what _heroes_ do."

"Well... that's good," I suppose.

I sense a 'but' coming.

"That said," Alfred continues (ah, there's the 'but'), "I have to admit. It's not geopolitically advantageous. For me. Or for you."

"You think he'll -"

"Oh, I _know_ he'll." Al looks out the window. "I don't trust him," he says to it, "I don't trust him, not even a little. I don't know what he's telling you but I think he's making up a lotta nonsense and complication so that it'll pull you in. And he got this star-crossed thing all cooked up to help him do it. Because you don't like simple things, do ya, Matt? Everything's gotta be complex with you. That's why you chew me out for every little thing you keep bottled up in there instead of, oh, I dunno, straight up telling me once in awhile what your beef is - that'd sure be nice! - and even here you want it difficult."

I feel cornered and accused. "Th-that's not true!" I stammer.

"It is true, 'cuz I know you!" my brother replies. "You're offered the choice between simple and tough and you pick tough. Who else _does_ that?"

"And who's simple?" I ask in a hard voice. "You?"

Al blushes. "Uh, well, Gilbert, for one," he says.

Oh! It's _Gilbert_ , is it?! Boils me up that he calls him by name. "Please. _Prussia_ and I are just friends, he isn't interested in me." Al snorts. "And even if he were - which he isn't, you're just misreading the atmosphere between us -"

"He's a good guy!" Al blurts. "Y'know, like - he's nice, friendly, doing well, he's attractive - uh, b-but don't tell him I said so - and most importantly he is _not_ going to manipulate you into working for him! And he isn't a shifty creepy commie! ...Anymore."

I'm ignoring everything he's saying about Russia, which is just the usual America diatribe that I've heard for the past fifty years. "If you like him so much, why don't _you_ go date him?" I retort. I sound more like a child than I'd like.

"He isn't interested in me," Al replies distantly.

"And if you don't care that I'm dating Russia then what's with this preamble, eh?"

Al rolls his eyes in a manner that is so similar to the way England does it, that I'm tempted to call him on it. "I don't care that Matt is dating ... whatever that stupid bastard's name is. I care that Canada is dating Russia, 'cuz I have to, and I care a lot that my little bro is being played for a fool for shifty business. Because that's what I saw in Kazakhstan. Shifty business. Not two guys in love."

He said the L-word. I _knew_ he was going to say the L-word. Dammit, Alfred, don't do that. My cheeks warm unpleasantly. "Al..."

"Just answer me this. Can you tell me what went on in Kazakhstan, or can't you?"

I stay silent.

I _could_ lie.

But he's my brother.

Alfred purses his lips. "That's what I thought. Then this isn't Matt and - that Russian dude we both know and see around at work sometimes. This is Canada and Russia, and I _have_ to pay attention to that."

No, he really doesn't! But I don't want him to keep harping on me like this. I'll have to tell him something. "It's ... he's having some trouble with his bosses." I try to keep it vague. "Two of them, one of him. Y'know."

"Russia's a big boy," Al decides. "Can't he handle himself against two lil' ol' humans?"

"I'm not so sure," I say. "They're acting pretty strange."

"Well... no matter how strange they act - this'll sound real harsh - they're only humans." Al shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "They don't last forever."

"Neither do we," I remind him.

Al nods, conceding the point, but counters, "We last a hell of a lot longer than they do."

"Unless _they_ really fuck up. Then we don't."

"Sure, and when's the last time something like that happened?"

It's clear he isn't getting it. I'll have to put two and two together for him. "What if they fucked up on purpose? To make us not last?"

Alfred sobers. "Is - that what's happening?" he asks gently.

I shrug. "I dunno. Maybe. All I know is he said it helps me to be there with him."

We're quiet for a moment, nothing but the sound of the wind through the drafts in my car's windows, and the asphalt beneath the tires, a constant hum.

Finally Al asks, "Do you like him, Matthew?"

I shrug again. "Sure I like him," I figure. "I wouldn't spend so much time with him if I didn't." The sex helps. "I wouldn't help him if I didn't like him." Though...actually I probably would.

Then Al asks, more shyly, "Do you love him?"

I don't reply.

I know I don't love him. For all that I can find some enjoyment in his company, every time we've been together recently has been fraught with tension and espionage, and it's been stressful. Exciting, but stressful. You don't get to know a guy in those circumstances. Not to the extent that you can properly say you love them.

Can you?

There's always love at first sight, as they say. Don't know that I believe in it. But Russia's ... well, I'm a bit biased - I've seen Ivan, I've seen how he looks when he comes, I've seen him with his lips wrapped around my cock, I've heard him whisper filthy things in a bedroom voice to me over the phone. That kind of stuff makes you notice a guy, and 'big nose weird smile crazy hair too tall for normal people' just becomes a facet of your observations.

He's attractive, _now_. He wasn't before. I don't think I'd ever have considered him conventionally attractive, before all this. Not really my type. I don't even know what my type is. I thought my type was his sister. I haven't thought of Katya in months.

And yet...

And yet, the way he held me in the shower. The way he kissed me that last night on the boardwalk, in full view of his bosses. The desperation in his eyes when he looks at me - he _needs_ me! I find it difficult to believe he feels nothing at all for me - and he's said on a number of occasions how grateful he is to me for my assistance, however paltry - and that certainly helps me feel something for him. Yes, I like it when people notice me. When people talk to me, interact with me, knowing full well I'm me, not mistaking me for my brother.

"I don't think so," I say at last.

No, I don't love him. But I might.

Eventually. Soon.

If Alfred picks up on how long it took me to say that, he doesn't comment on it. "Where's he been, anyway?" he asks. "Why's he never coming to see you?"

"Because he's under house arrest," I say. "Ten years. His bosses."

Al sucks in a breath and sits up more straight in his seat. "Whoa. They can do that?"

"Guess so," I reply.

"I can't help you," he says. "I would if I could - I'd ask if I can do anything. You know - if you really want - with him, then I support you. I always support you, you're my _brother!_ I'd do anything for you, Mattie."

I take my eyes off the road very briefly to meet my brother's. He smiles sadly. "But America can't support Canada in this," he finishes.

"I know." Even I've done too much.

"So what're you gonna do?" he asks.

"I dunno," I say. "I really don't know."

"It's only ten years. You could wait."

What can they do to him in ten years' time? Could they do anything seriously wrong? How bad could they mess him up? Could they do permanent, irreparable damage?

And moreover, waiting ten years for him like a long lost lover? I don't like him enough for that.

Do I?

"Anyway," says Al, leaning over to switch on the radio, "let's have some tunes."

\--

The world meeting this year is held a few weeks before it usually is held, in late June. It's not atypical for the July meeting to be moved, and to be perfectly honest, I like not working on Canada Day, so I don't mind pushing it this far back. Means I don't work on my birthday.

Colombia is hosting this year, having swapped duties last year with Estonia. And Bogotá is a lovely place, ordinarily I'd be excited. But my mind is elsewhere. As, it seems, is Russia.

The meetings go off without a hitch, and there is nothing eventful to report, with one glaring exception.

Estonia bumps into me - literally - after the luncheon on the second day on his way out of the conference room. "Watch it!" I snap. I'm already angry with him. His walking into me like he doesn't even see me irks me even further.

Estonia stalks off without a word.

My first instinct is to snap back, knowing that it's futile because if I'm being walked into, the other person won't notice my reaction to it, they never do, I'm used to it...

Only I'm not.

Only, nobody's treated me like that for awhile. Like I don't exist, like I'm invisible.

And just as I realise that, off to the side I notice Egypt and Ethiopia, watching with wide open eyes. Watching _me_. I'm obviously not invisible to _them!_

They exchange looks, then they catch my eye. "Are you okay?" asks Ethiopia.

"Pretty rude," Egypt mutters.

"I'm fine," I reply, brushing myself off.

 _They_ saw me just fine. So why can't Estonia? I'm tempted to go track him down and tell him to watch where he's going, what's _with_ him.

But no sooner have I turned to do just that when Kuma-something tugs my pant leg. "What?" I ask exasperatedly.

"Don't need to," says Kuma-thingamajig.

"You can't just plow into people like that," I explain. "That's impolite. He could at least apologise."

"He got what he came for. Doesn't need to talk to you." Kuma-whatever lets my pant leg go and starts pawing idly at the laces of my shoe. "Inside your jacket."

Inside my -

I slip my hand inside my blazer, the inside pocket -

\- there's something there that wasn't before.

Mostly flat, a solid bump inside it, a about the size of my palm. Rough packing paper exterior. An envelope.

 _How_ did - !

Sleight of hand, much! My blazer's been buttoned up since this morning. He must've waited until I unbuttoned it, after the meeting. Estonia would make the world's best pickpocket. Almost a shame he's well off these days.

But I know the drill. So long as Russia's bosses are here - and they are, watching me, their interest piqued after my physical encounter with Estonia - I can't open it.

I remove a pen from my inside blazer pocket instead. Pretend I've been looking for it all this time.

"That's better," says Kuma-thing.

\--

Later that week, once I've returned from Colombia, mid-day on the 2nd (once the drunken revelry of my birthday is over and my hangover has worn off), I reach into my laundry hamper and pull out the envelope again. I open it. There's a note, accompanying a small cardboard parcel, maybe one and a half times the size of a credit card, half an inch thick.

 _I am being watched,_ says the note, _so I cannot be friendly. Nor can we meet - not yet._

_If you want to help him - and if I know him then he has gotten so deep under your skin that you still do - follow my instructions to the letter. Tell no one._

_If you're smart you won't open the parcel in your hotel room. Do not open it in your house, and not at work. Go to one of your parks - somewhere where there is no surveillance, because security staff are never paid much and are easily bribable - find a quiet place away from trees, and there you must open it._

_I await your response._

_-E_

\--

I drive out as instructed. The package, when I finally open it, is a cellphone. Nokia - a Finnish company - an old model with a cracked screen. I turn it on to find one missed call from a number 050 239 55 03. That's a Finnish mobile line, I recognise. How did Estonia manage this?!

I text the number first. _Who is this?_

My answer comes back within thirty seconds. _Give me an hour. We need to talk._

So I wait. Forty-five minutes later the phone rings. It's that number again. I pick up.

"Are you certain you're alone?" It's Estonia's voice, clipped syllables and all. It's a bit difficult to hear him, but if he's in his own land that's to be expected.

"I'm on the Central Experimental Farm," I tell him.

"And what is this?"

"It's a farm in the city," I say. "Hard to explain. I'm on a road outside the experimental oilseed fields. Can't get much more isolated than this without heading into suburbs."

"Ah," Estonia replies. "No, better remaining in the city. Easier for me to hack into satellites."

I hear some typing going on in the line behind him. "Is that how you're doing this?"

"Something like it." More keystrokes then a double-click of a mouse. "Only way I can be sure this is a secure line."

"Finland's security isn't enough?"

"Finland doesn't know about this." The keystrokes stop. "And he _mustn't_ know."

I look around me. There's nobody near, the fields are deserted. It's ten in the morning, and people are working, but not right now, not here, except for a few workers here and there farther off in the distance. I'm leaned up on my car facing a tree. I guess it's time to get to business, anyway. "What do you want?"

"Don't sound so mad to me!" Estonia complains.

"You're working with Russia's bosses to imprison him, and you expect me not to be mad?"

"Not quite the whole story! They've got my hands tied also, and I need your help getting out of their service."

I glare. A sparrow perches on the nearest branch, catches my eye, and flits off again. "And why exactly should I help you?"

More keystrokes on the line. Estonia is typing something again. "Because I am the one cracking codes on your correspondences for them, and if I am out of their influence then I can get you messages to him, and he to you. But most importantly ..."

He trails off. The keystrokes stop again. "Yes?" I ask.

Estonia sighs. "I am in trouble myself," he says unhappily. "And I need the help. I don't promise what Russia has been giving you - my whore days are over, thanks - but, do you truly do nothing for those in need anymore? I got the impression, you were more altruistic -"

 _Whore_ days - ! "Ru- he's not - I-I'm not doing this to get sex out of it!" I stammer.

A few mouse clicks. "It's what it sounded like to me," Estonia says snottily. "You know, I hear these audio feeds."

"I - what kind of person do you think I am?! You have to understand, I-it just sort of - happened -"

"Oh yes, I know," he replies. "It always 'just happens'. Standard trick he uses."

I pause. Silence on the line on both our ends. "You're lying," I say.

"Hmmm. I wish."

I thought... he did like me, didn't he? Didn't he feel some sort of affection? Anything at all?

"We should meet," continues Estonia. "I need to get to him, and you can help me with that."

"And how can I do that?"

"Your little invisibility trick, I thought."

My eyes grow wide. "How did you -"

"I spoke with him directly before contacting you. That's why it took me a damned year! He is _not_ easy to get to."

"And - is he -" I trail off. I can't make myself say it.

"He's fine," Estonia reassures me. "Bored out of his mind, what remains of that, but yes, is fine. They don't torture him, if that's what you're asking."

They couldn't anyway. What can they do to one of us that would be permanent? Except for what Petrova and Borovsky have been up to. From what Russia was telling me, that's a bit like torture, though perhaps sabotage is more the word for it. "I'm not sure that what his bosses are doing isn't exactly that," I say.

A few more keystrokes. "I am inclined to agree," Estonia decides, "I don't like it. I have bad feelings about this."

"Then we'll meet," I say. "What have you got in mind?"

"A week from now, I hold a working group for few of us on cybersecurity. Mostly European members, but China, your brother, and Russia will be in attendance. Not Russia himself, but his bosses coming. Of course, this is completely false but only we will know it's sham. We two leave early."

"How will we avoid suspicion?"

"Finland is good at picking fights. I've asked him to create some sort of distraction - he doesn't know why, he thinks I only want to leave early, which, well, he's not wrong - but before anyone knows, we are gone three hours. From there, we drive to Moscow. Drive is long, so bring reading. When we arrive, you, meet up with Russia and get him out - I have some plan for this. Meanwhile I wait elsewhere in the city. I trust him to lose the tracks on him, if there is one, and meet with me in isolated location. We two have something to discuss."

"Alright. Then what?"

"It depends on how that goes. I suspect the result he'll be angry, but more concerned. He knows what the next step is."

"And that is?"

Estonia sighs. "Probably, to break into his bosses' offices and retrieve what documents are blocking his permission to see legislative changes."

"He can't just tell?" I know instantly when Colin's doing something dumb. It's in the media, it's in the faces of my citizens, it's in my bones.

"He no longer knows what's being changed the way we're supposed to," Estonia says. "He needs these papers to catch up."

"I don't like the sound of this," I say.

"You think I _want_ to break into Kremlin? Not my idea of fun! But remember, whatever his bosses have done to him, can be done to one of us. Canada, we must do something." There's some noise on other side of the line. "I have to go," says Estonia, in a panicked voice, "they've found me."

"I-"

"If you accept, I'll see you at the working group. Don't contact this number again! Throw that phone out. Remove memory card and battery, keep those safe."

He hangs up. I'm left with a dead line in my hand and for a second I just look at it, in horror. This is unsettling.

Then I turn the phone around, break the back open and remove the battery and memory card, like he told me to.

\--

The invite to the cybersecurity working group pops into my inbox that afternoon.

I take a few minutes to prepare myself to wheedle Colin into giving me time off to go all the way to Tartu, Estonia on last minute notice, but when I step into his office he's on the phone. He doesn't get off for me, and wordlessly spins his laptop around to show the email he's received from Estonia's boss, inviting me cordially to the meeting. Then he waves me away, all while berating someone named Desaulniers for their perceived shortsightedness.

I get online to book a ticket for one, but then Kuma-thingit climbs up onto my lap, and I switch the number of seats desired to two.

"I'll get in the way," Kuma-whatnot says.

"I might need you," I argue.

"I'm not the one who plays ghost," he replies. It's true. So far, my invisibility ruse works on me, my clothes and shoes, and anything I'm carrying which isn't alive. Unless I intend to ambush the Russians with a floating bear. Tempting.

So in the end, I book for one and leave him with Lisa - who loves Kuma but isn't happy about the last minute notice that cramps her plans to visit Sam's family in the States. I ply them both with food and squeaky toys and a firm promise that I'll stop ditching my bear with her at the eleventh hour.

\--

The working group itself is boring. We're on the ninth floor of one of Estonia's hotels, where there's a conference hall big enough for all of us. We have a two-hour-long round-table discussion which America and Germany take turns dominating, with China jumping in the fray here and there, then Germany presents his findings on some exploited loopholes in audit trails for online voting.

I have no idea what he's talking about. I don't pay much attention. I'm sure it's all very interesting and important. I just have to stick it out until the end of the day.

Prussia seems surprised to see me here. I make myself scarce at lunch. I'm... starting to feel a bit guilty about avoiding him. He looks unhappy.

But I note that during the break, he and America speak closely for forty minutes, off to the side. And he doesn't come to seek me out. I don't know what to make of that.

Russia's bosses are the only humans in the meeting. This is brought up during the context of the roundtable discussion and re-visited after our midday break.

It seems a lot of us, by now, have realised that this is Strange with a capital S. After all, Russia himself hasn't been seen in over a year, and keeps sending his bosses in his stead. To _every_ meeting. Germany is convinced that it's nothing more than Russia's laziness. Both Belgium and Sweden voice similar opinions. America and I exchange glances. I spotted two guards on our way inside - tall, broad men in suits and sunglasses stationed either side of the entrance. Somehow I don't think they're Estonia's men.

"Whatever," says China, "he smart not to come, this is boring."

"Nevertheless, he ought to be here," adds France. "If we have to, he has to. It is unfair!"

In the afternoon, Estonia leads us through an advisory session about DDoS attacks and then one about regulatory updates and cloud server abuse, and at 4pm sharp he proceeds to schedule the next meeting for the last week in September.

Finland raises objections. "Excuse me, _Viro_ dear," he begins politely, "I can't make that week! I have meeting with Chile already."

"We could carry on without you," Germany offers.

Finland scoffs haughtily. "I don't think so!" he says. "Let's please make it first weekend in October."

"I cannot make that," Germany argues. "Surely you can compromise one small event, and if not, is this meeting truly as important as your bilateral relations?"

" _My_ telecom companies outperforms any of yours! Why should I compromise something?" Finland erupts, and I don't know how true that is, but it gets both Germany and Prussia instantly on their feet. Finland doesn't back down, though, and continues to argue. "What about the third October?"

"That is unity day!" Prussia complains.

"We may yet reach compromise," suggests Germany, placatingly, "how is the first?"

Finland's doing a good job of not budging. "That's not giving me time enough, I will be jet-lagged. We'll have to make it after! Week of the 10th?"

"No, I am hosting the _Organisation de coopération et de développement économiques_ ," explains France. "Many of us cannot make that."

I watch Estonia as he tries to be heard over the growing din but he can't shout loudly enough to cover Finland and Germany, let alone all the other nations who begin voicing their opinions about when they can and can't meet. I have a sneaking suspicion they're all trying to push the next meeting to next year. Finally, exasperated and exhausted, Estonia throws up his hands and flops back down in his seat. "Fine," he shouts, "next meeting schedule is tabled for next meeting, we adjourn!"

Some of the nations begin to leave, though many of them remain to bicker. "But how are we going to address it next meeting if we don't know when next meeting is?" asks Latvia.

"We could set up an online poll," suggests France. "Then we can all go home now -"

"My earlier presentation explained why this is not secure!" Germany yells. " _Verdammt_ , were you not paying attention?"

"Alright! We break for fifteen minutes, all return with your calendars!" If Estonia isn't in fact annoyed, he's doing a great job pretending.

I leave with the rest of the crowd when we file out, flanked by Spain and Iceland. "Ah, good," says a voice behind me. I don't have to turn to see who it is; I'm familiar enough with the voice. Estonia presses his hand into the small of my back, guiding me not-so-subtly towards the exit instead of the snacks outside the conference hall. "I was about to get fresh air. Perhaps pollute it with cigarette. Canada, won't you please join me," he asks firmly - not a request by any means.

I let him steer me around. We get to the elevator and take the busiest one. There must be twelve people in here - all of them Baltic, I can tell by the predominance of blue eyes and blond hair. Two women speak to each other in what must be Estonian but sounds like trilling gibberish to me.

A guard has followed us already this far, but he stays a distance away. He doesn't manage to make it in time. If it weren't for the fact that he's in a suit with sunglasses, and that Estonia keeps pushing the 'doors close' button repeatedly, as though pushing it more will make it work faster, I wouldn't've known he was a guard at all.

I can _feel_ the anxiety coming off Estonia from steps away.

Smartly, he's picked the elevator with the most amount of stops. Practically every floor is lit up. We make all the stops, letting someone out each time. Estonia keeps his eyes on the crowd and one hand on the door closed button, but has yet to select a floor himself.

At ground, two men - dressed plainclothes, but tall and broad, with sunglasses and earpieces - get in. Estonia keeps his eyes down and slips out the side. I almost don't notice, and have to race after him to follow. The men, behind me, look angry that he's eluded them, but the doors are already closing.

"We'll take another," Estonia says, and jumps in the nearest down elevator, with a single occupant, a placid-looking lady of approximately sixty, who gets out at -1.

Now, he pushes -3, and slams the doors close button before the guards can figure out where we're going.

-3, if it's like -1, must be some sort of parking level. We're not going for a smoke, it seems.

"Come on, come on," Estonia whispers to himself. "Quickly, please."

"We'll get there," I try to reassure him. He ignores me.

The elevator dings and the doors open. The parking garage is filled with cars but nobody seems to be around - no guards, no other citizens. "Good. Follow me," he says. "Stay close."

He walks briskly across the garage - a left, another sharp left, a few metres after that, and he stops in front of a shiny silver car partially obscured by a cement pillar. It looks new, but the model is a few years old. He must take really good care of it. Or he doesn't salt his roads as much as I salt mine. Estonia removes a keyring from his pocket and the car beeps and the lights flash. "Unlocked. Let's go," he says.

I hop in the passenger's side, and Estonia gets in the front. "This might be bit..." Estonia begins. He swings an arm around my seat as he twists his head around to back out of the parking spot. "Hmm," he says. "How I should say this..."

"Nerve-wracking?"

He replaces his hands on the wheel and slams on the gas. I'm pinned against the seat. "Yes," he says, "that's good enough."

We make it to the highway uneventfully. By which I mean, we somehow manage not hitting anything, which surprises me because Estonia's not a very good driver. A few times I catch him wavering in and out of the lines on the road, and he overcorrects. He acts like he doesn't drive too often. Now the pristine state of his car makes sense.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Until we get out of Tartu, let us keep conversation to few words, okay?" advises Estonia. "I need concentration."

He's constantly checking the rearview mirror and both sides. I hear a whirring noise at my right and notice that he's using the controls on the driver's side to fiddle with the mirror on the passenger side - which, of course, takes his concentration off the road. "You're, uh - climbing up that guy's rear pretty fast, eh?" I tell him. He overcompensates by hitting the brakes harder than he needs, jerking me forward.

"Calm down," I say.

" _Don't_ tell me to calm down," he snaps. His fingernails are white on the steering wheel. "If you're not going to be helpful then be quiet."

I sigh. "Okay, what can I do to be helpful?"

"You can tell me when _they've_ stopped following us," he says darkly.

I can't see anything in the mirrors behind me - angled for Estonia's position - so I turn around to see. We're in the middle of a two-lane highway. Cars around us, aft and fore. I can't tell which of them are our trackers.

With a sudden twist of the wheel and a screech of the tires, Estonia yanks us into the fast lane and slams on the gas, knocking me so hard into the passenger side door that it puts my glasses askew. My seatbelt tightens automatically.

I am going to die. I am going to die and it is going to be because Estonia _can't drive_. "Jesus christ!" I yell. I'm flattened back on the seat, my hands scrambling their way to a firm grip on the door where it meets the window.

Estonia locks the doors. There go my barrel roll plans. "You watch for them," he says, "just let me drive."

" _Must_ I?" I grumble.

He takes us a good ten car lengths before he switches lanes again, cutting someone off. They honk at us. "Dammit," Estonia says. "Can't do that. Will alert them."

I keep an eye on the mirrors, and it's now that I realise....

... there's two cars behind us which seem to be keeping pace. One black, one blue, both driven - I squint to be sure - by men in suits with sunglasses.

"They're still there," I say.

"How many?"

"Two. Blue and black."

"Good," Estonia says, "perhaps then I have lost the white one."

"But surely they'll have radio contact between them."

"Which is why I have to concentrate!" He jerks the steering wheel at the last minute to pull us onto an on-ramp to another highway.

The blue one follows us, the black one doesn't. "Got one," I say.

"Not yet, I haven't."

We keep on that highway for some time, switching lanes periodically - probably annoying everybody around us - and I'm impressed we haven't gotten pulled over by the police given how fast Estonia's going. "Shit," he says, finally breaking the silence. "Rush hour, ahead. How this is _possible?_ "

"It _is_ a city, what city doesn't have daily traffic around 4:30 in the afternoon -"

"It is _student town_ in middle of summer!" As traffic slows, Estonia pulls onto the shoulder and drives the last remaining car lengths on it to the off-ramp, to the tune of many honks but (somehow) not yet sirens.

"I-I thought you didn't want to alert anybody!" I yell. We roll over something that I sincerely hope is a pothole. "At this rate, you'll attract the _cops!_ "

"I hope not," mutters Estonia, "I don't actually possess licence."

He doesn't have a licence.

He _doesn't have a fucking licence!!_

" _You_ -" We veer dangerously close to the ditch by the side of the highway. "Why does this not surprise me," I groan.

Finally we turn off the shoulder to the off-ramp. "We take the city to lose them," Estonia says. "Let's hope they are not using other two to flank us, as they may find that easy to do."

"Yeah, let's also hope the cops don't catch us, Mister _Joy-ride_ ," I retort.

Estonia scoffs. "So we both claim diplomatic immunity! There is no problem. Stop complaining."

We continue on a straight route for some time, and the car behind us doesn't overtake or pass anybody to keep in position. The black one catches up. They might think that we think we've lost them, and for the moment that's probably better.

"Construction ahead," I warn. I'm pretty sure that's what the sign means. It's not in English but symbols are universal.

"Ah. Good news," Estonia says, "down to one lane. In good position."

We keep in line for the duration of the construction - forcing it down to one lane makes the blue car and black car file into queue, and our four car lengths separation now becomes twelve single file.

The second he's clear of the construction, Estonia swerves right and slams on the speed, then swerves left to hide us in the buildings.

"Can't be that simple," I murmur.

"It never is," he agrees, then swerves down a side street barely large enough for us.

The blue car is lost now, but the black car reappears behind us within seconds. "Quickly!" he says, and steps on the accelerator again as he takes a sharp left turn. The car bounces over the curb and up onto the sidewalk before he corrects the wheels and brings us back to the road.

"Jesus!" I yell, "would you _watch it?_ There was a pedestrian there!" I twist around and see her angrily shouting something at us.

"Their fault, they see the lights, says not cross yet!" Estonia snaps - too busy yelling to _drive straight_ and he's taken one hand off the steering wheel to gesture angrily as he speaks - "why they sit there waiting at edge of sidewalk anyway?"

There's a roundabout up ahead, which I know means bad news.

Worse - I'm still watching the action behind us - "The black car is gaining on us," I say.

"Good," says Estonia, and with a screech of tires has spun us around the roundabout so fast we nearly lose control. Again I find myself pinned to the door. He goes all the way around to reverse our direction and the second his tires are back aligned (mostly) he clamps on the speed. The black car behind us has to race to keep up, and has barely made the roundabout before we turn off a side street out of view.

The side street is small, hardly big enough for our car. Estonia takes a sharp left onto another alley and I notice something.

"Uh -"

"Oh, what now?" he snaps.

"The fire escapes -" I say -

\- are low-hanging, thick iron ladders that might just take off the roof of the car.

" _Kuradi raisk!_ " Estonia growls, trilling the r's obscenely, and swerves to the right to avoid hitting one on our left. Then swerves left to avoid the one on the right. He swerves right - then left - then right - the fire escapes are either side, interspersed. Estonia jerks the car from side to side and overcorrects both ways until I am positive we're going to crash into something.

When we do, I'm relieved that it's only a garbage bin.

And the bin, after we hit it, falls neatly into the middle of the alley, blocking any driving through, just as the black car pulls in.

Estonia takes the next right onto a regular route and finds the highway.

Just to be sure, I keep looking over my shoulder, but none of the cars rejoin us.

Five minutes later, we're still clear. Safe!

"I think..." Estonia says cautiously, his eyes on the mirrors. "I think we can breathe easy now."

'Breathe easy', he says! 'I don't have a licence', he says!

I give him my very best glare.

"At least until Moscow!" he says. "Which is full of Petrova's people." His tone is trying for reassuring and failing miserably. We turn off onto another highway leading out of the city.

"Then maybe we should start talking," I say. I should clarify. "Maybe _you_ should start talking."

Estonia reddens to the tips of his ears and his thin lips pinch shut.

"Are you in danger? You said, Petrova's people, and those guards following you, what are they doing?"

"They are blackmailing me," Estonia says. "They know what I've done - something I shouldn't have done, something they caught me doing. They say they tell Russia what I've done. That's why I need to see him. If I tell him first, then worst is over - assuming I survive - they have nothing over me anymore, and I can get on with life."

What could Estonia have possibly done? It would have to be international, to involve Russia's bosses... Something electronic? It's Estonia, it has to be electronic. "What did you do?"

Estonia shakes his head, his lips thin and pressed together. "Cannot say. If - if Russia does not explode when I tell him, then I shall tell you, because then it doesn't matter who knows."

"It was something big, wasn't it?" I guess.

Estonia is quiet for a few moments. Finally, he says, "He would be within his right to perceive it as act of war."

I suck in a shocked breath. If that's the w-word - if he can _say_ it...

It must be big. He shouldn't be able to say it.

"If he did same to me," he continues, "it's what I would do. No hesitation."

"So then - that's why they're following you," I say, realising.

"They don't know what I'm doing, not yet. They know that I have to speak to Russia for other reasons, but all those other reasons have been chaperoned before now."

And there's more ... "That time in Kazakhstan -" I put it together - "we could've all gone out together, we could've all spoken without them there!" It could have been so easy!

Estonia smiles kindly. "It's nice idea, isn't it? But they are always there, always watching. They would make him wear wires. They would make _me_ wear wires. They would make me record what we spoke and hand over all material."

I'm still frantically trying to put together what Estonia's done. "There could be workarounds," I say. We could have written on a pad of paper and passed it back and forth. We could have morse-code blinked messages around. We could have done any number of things to communicate silently. I should - I should have trusted Estonia. Dammit! "Where are we going now?"

"Now, we go to Moscow, where Russia is being held. He has two apartments there, one at the Kremlin, and one in Moscow's Chinatown."

"Why there, of all places?"

"Used to be large market in that location. One of Europe's largest. They closed it on allegations of illegal activities. Lot of counterfeiting, smuggling, illegal immigration ... if you wanted something done and nobody to find out about it, it was where to go. When that was shut down, there were projects needed badly to refill that sector, and luckily, China moved in with a goodly sum of development material - and money - that Russia literally could not refuse. Overall, it's beneficial to both ... but you can't eradicate corruption with money. There are still old ways people do business there."

"So that's why they're holding him in that location?" So that Petrova and Borovsky can bribe who they like to shut up about what they're doing to their own representative?

"Not quite," says Estonia. "If they wanted to keep closest watch on him, he would be in Kremlin. The fact that they have moved him tells me that they are, how to say, lightning upon him."

"Lightening up on him?"

"Yes. After year's good behaviour."

"Do you know Moscow well?"

"I know St Petersburg, better. Back before my independence, I did lots of education there - it was easy for us _western borderlands_ , particularly easy for me - all in Russian language of course - and the city is beautiful. Lot of trade, lot of money, was well-connected to Europe - just upriver for me, quite easy to access. Lovely place, for Russian city. When ... we were occupied, however, all business must go through Moscow - naturally - so now, yes, _now_ I know Moscow well enough. I like Moscow much less." He is silent for a bit. "There are spies everywhere," he says quietly, uncomfortably. "We go through Petseri, then through Pskov on the Russian side, follow M20 until Moscow."

My Estonian and Russian geography is severely lacking. "Where's Petseri?"

"South. On the border with Russia. Once we are in, we are harder to detect. We could take lot off our time by progressing more directly but Petseri is advantageous for this purpose."

Why would - oh. That's right, why go south if you could just head directly east? We're nations, there's borders all around us.

But - hang on... Why would one particular place on the border matter more?

And Russia had said, 'fuzzy borders'...

"His borders are especially fuzzy there, you mean."

Estonia reddens again. "Yes."

With a flash of insight I put it together. "That's your doing, isn't it."

His lips are tight, his knuckles clenched on the steering wheel.

"Estonia. What did you _do?_ " I ask.

"I'm sorry, I can't say anything more," Estonia whispers, and his grip on the steering wheel begins to shake.

We drive in relative silence for the rest of the trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long!!
> 
> Also, accents are _amazing_ , so every character who isn't Canada gets one. (actually not quite true, Canada has one too, but being the POV character, he thinks he doesn't, and his is extremely difficult to write out beyond lexical differences, references to Canadiana, and occasional use of the word 'eh'. All other big differences from General American English are phonological.) That includes Estonia, whose speech I've modelled after conductor [Tonu Kaljuste's accent](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uEUn5dBzdhI). The linguistic peculiarities specific to each language have a tendency to imprint (phonologically, syntactically, and semantically) on each character's spoken English; different languages, different accents. An Estonian accent sounds closer to Finnish (to my ears) than it does Russian. Anyway I could literally talk your ear off about accents and linguistics, so [come at me here](http://sarageneris.tumblr.com/ask) if you want to a) discuss accents, b) talk more about how I developed Estonia's (and Finland's) accent, or c) get angry at me because you think this text reads too much like the Hetalia dub.
> 
> Translations:  
> Verdammt: Damn it  
> Kuradi raisk: :') guess


	14. Chapter 11

11\. _(moscow)_

Getting into Moscow, as it turns out, is easy to do when it's nearly midnight on a Thursday. The city - like many big cities - never sleeps, and there's traffic always, but much less traffic than rush hour, and no cops out patrolling for DUIs yet. Estonia starts checking the mirrors again.

"Do you see anybody?" I ask.

"Still nobody," he says. "Anywhere else licence plate would be suspicious but I guess here they must think I am some sort of diplomat."

We notice a burst of activity around Chinatown from far away. "Also, if I'm diplomat," Estonia supposes, "why I should go there? I should be staying at some hotel, probably."

So that's what we do. Estonia drives into the parking garage of an incredible skyscraper. I only recognise the Hilton logo; the rest is in Cyrillic. He parks us here. "Will they check your car?" I ask.

Estonia shrugs. "Let them ticket it, let them tow it. I don't care. I can get it back more easily than they remove it. Now. Here is my plan. You, don't be followed." He reaches into the glove compartment which contains, aptly enough, gloves, as well as a somewhat-squashed red trilby hat made out of cheap-feeling felt which will probably make me look like a grade-A douche. "Wear these, and this. There's coat in the trunk, wear it. Glasses in the pocket."

"You know, it's pretty warm in the city," I say. It is July, after all. "Won't that be suspicious?"

"If you walk fast, act like you know what you're doing, nobody notices. People don't pay attention to each other here unless they are paid to, and if they are - well, this is why I said don't be followed."

He takes out a map from the glove compartment and unfolds a small part of it. "This is the metro," he explains, tracing his finger along it. It snakes a wide berth across the paper. "We are closest here, at Komsomolskaya. You want to go here -"

"This one?" I point to one marked _Kitay-gorod_. "That means 'China-town', doesn't it?"

"No," Estonia snaps acidly, "that would make _sense_. This is Russia. We can't have that. You want here, Cherkizovskaya. In completely opposite direction. Four stops north. Look, it is even coloured, you can't possibly screw this up." Estonia's faith in me is positively staggering. "Exit, two hundred metres to your left is the market."

"Can I take the map with me?" I ask.

Estonia is hesitant. "Yes, but only take it out when you are sure you can't be seen. You look like tourist with it otherwise, and that is suspicious. Try not to use it at all. Memorise what you can, and don't get lost. Now! This area here, lot of alleyways." He points.

A lot of the street-names don't look Russian-sounding. But what do _I_ know? "This is the Chinatown?"

"Yes. If you need to lose someone, good place to do it here. Once you get here - this is Russia's address." He leans over to pull out his wallet from his back pocket. Inside he plucks a single slip of paper, folded up around a key. "Second floor apartment. That is the key. Get in as though you belong there. People are monitoring him from some distance. Likely they will pay little attention, this time of night, but you should remain hidden as long as possible. By the way, how long does that last?

"I don't know," I say truly, "I've never tested it for very long."

"Then save it and use only when you get close enough. Walk up, it's apartment 203, north side of building. Enter on the street. Remain invisible until after you have entered. Then, listen for people leaving - conveniently, his next-door neighbours are having party tonight - once you are in, Russia can leave, they won't be able to tell that you are not in fact him, and that the man walking out of the apartment is not with the party."

"I thought you said they were watching him."

"Not with their eyes. He argued about three months ago, he has been good, doesn't need constant video feed. Is just thermal cameras, poor resolution." Prussia said Germany's dogs couldn't pick up my scent when I vanished on him in May. I was invisible when I collected Brocken wood. It's gotta work on thermal cameras, too. "Give Russia your jacket, and your hat, trade them for his, just in case. He leaves with them, and meets me in this location." The reverse of the paper Estonia has handed me says 'Colline des moineaux'. Sparrow Hills, in French.

So I revisibilify once Russia leaves - I realise what he's doing. This way there's always one person in the apartment, so they aren't alerted. And Russia departing at the same time as a partygoer causes confusion on poor resolution cameras. Of course! "And then what?"

Estonia looks grim. "Depending on how good this meeting is... we meet again here. Probably I get here first and wait. Meanwhile, he returns home, relieves you of duty. You, return here as soon as possible. If you can't be invisible, take lot of turns, long, confusing route."

I nod. "Right."

We walk briskly to the metro, and just before we enter, I slip out of sight. "Behind you," I say - Estonia, wisely, doesn't react. I vault over the turnstiles unnoticed by the crowd.

"You, northbound," he murmurs, moving his lips as little as possible. "I, south. Be swift. I expect him in thirty minutes."

\--

The Chinatown in Moscow is lovelier than many of mine, probably because it's newer. If it weren't for the fact that I've got a distinct feeling that my ability to stay invisible is affected by my exhaustion from using it, and that I've got instructions to be quick, I might take my time looking around. Many of the usual shops have closed - it _is_ after midnight - but there are a few food markets, late-night bakeries and tea shops that remain open and these are busy with activity. People buying fruit and potatoes, boxed teas, yelling to be heard over the din from across the street. Across the street is a nightclub, which is lit up like Vegas, the music pounding. The guests - from what I can see, mostly Eastern European - are dressed to the nines and lined up around the block. Must be a ritzy place.

There's a man hiding near the club bouncer, scanning the crowd. In a suit with a small radio to his ear. I'm not sure if he's looking for me or on another errand, but I shouldn't stick around to tempt fate.

Farther down into the nest of alleys now. Garbage, everywhere - welcome to inner city. The few people in the alleys are drunks. For them, the party has been going on for some time now. Some are sitting on doorsteps, some staggering through the alley somewhere else, some leaned against the walls and lighting up what I hope is just cigarettes. Two over in the corner have found each other and are making no attempt to be discreet.

I continue on. Exit the alley, find myself in a road too busy for cars. Foot traffic alone, it appears, as well as bikes and mopeds, perched high with boxes and goods and sometimes people, holding onto the driver without helmets and shrieking laughter into their ears.

"Stupid kids," says a voice to the side, "they're going to crash and get themselves hurt."

I'm about to agree when I realise -

That's a familiar voice.

And that was in English.

And they were definitely talking to _me_.

I look to my left.

There's a man standing next to me. He's tall and lanky, deeply scarred, with moss-green eyes and jaw-length dark hair that hangs loosely and limply around his jaw. Ratty, like it hasn't been cut in centuries, though that doesn't make sense - it'd be around his waist if that were so. He's quite pale.

He reminds me of an older Lithuania...

But most worrisome of all, he's looking _directly at me_.

I hear a loud squeal of brakes and the sound of metal meeting brick at a decently high speed, followed by screams. People storm the crash site like a SWAT team. I hope one of them is pulling out a cellphone and call for help.

"I told you so," the man says, folding his arms across his chest.

Aren't I still invisible?

I look down at my hands. I see straight through them. How can he see me?

I don't ask the question, and the man doesn't answer it. He tuts derisively, gives me a wink and walks straight on by to disappear into the crowd.

He's - he's one of us, he has to be, I can find no other explanation for it - but why is he here? Former province of Russia's? Someone I haven't legally recognised yet? A micronation?! Pretty old-looking for a micronation.

I get back to the route Estonia traced out for me, doubling my pace, with my mind working overtime, racing faster than my pulse. Whatever the reason that man is here too, I don't know, but if Russia's bosses can hire Estonia's services, maybe they can get other parts of Russia too, historical ones - small areas of land - could they? wouldn't the historical ones have passed on by now? and why, what would they possibly get out of it? Unless they want to do Russia in as revenge? How many conspire against him on a daily basis?

Oh hell, this is crazy paranoid talk.

" _Ey!_ " calls out another voice, " _eto on, kanadyets, on zdyes' -_ "

" _Horosho - khvatay yemu, oni khotyat, chtoby -_ "

Shit! My cover's blown! I don't know how - doesn't matter how - but my feet are distinctly visible. I must have lost my concentration!

Immediately I dart away, past the growing crowd around the accident and down the alley along the other side. I duck behind the building, out of sight for the moment with the exception of one man who with luck is too drunk to see me, invisible or not.

Concentrate, concentrate... I have to get back to work.

Slowly the tingling resumes in my arms, giving me goosebumps that travel from my forearms to my shoulders and down my back. I know it's working.

" _Chto? Kak-to mirazh?_ " It seems the drunk has seen me disappear. He stares through me at the wall in baffled wonder.

Two men, one suited, the other plainclothes in a leather jacket and jeans, both with earpieces and sunglasses, appear at the junction. Leather Jacket seizes the drunk instantly and the other begins yelling at him. " _Ty videl muzhchinu? V krasnoy shapke? Skazhi, gde on poshel?_ "

I tear off running in the other direction.

There's a single alley down to my left. I give it a quick glance, but there's two men in suits racing up it.

Keep running. Next alley heading right has nobody. But that takes me farther from the main road, and I need to get back there to make it to Russia's.

A single man on a radio in a dingy T-shirt coming up the last left-bound alley way from the main road. Seems normal, but I spot the earpiece. He's on the phone. I don't want to know who with. " _Da ... pravilno, no - ... my sdelayem rabotu, ne volnuytes'!_ "

I flatten myself on the wall, and he walks right past me to join the others.

Back to the main road. I have a few extra blocks until Russia's apartment. I don't spare any more time for the landscape and jog the rest of the way, hoping I stay hidden.

Russia's apartment is above a video and cell phone case shop, closed and barred shut for the night. It's easier than I expected to break into the street-entrance of the stairs to the apartments, however, since it's not actually locked.

I quickly look behind me. There's a few people that look suspicious. A van at the end of the road. That must be the one monitoring him.

I open the door only as far as I need to slip in, closing it quickly shut behind me.

The party next door is in full swing. Loud music, lots of yelling. Good. 203 lies steps beyond it, close enough that if I need to talk to Russia - and I'd dearly love to - we might not be overheard.

As quietly as I can I put the key in the lock and let myself in, keeping the invisibility engaged. Russia's apartment is a small place, few furnishments, nothing on the wall besides an empty set of coat hooks and a calendar from 1980. I find myself in a hallway. To the left of me is the kitchen, in front of me a hall closet and to my right another hallway, leading to a living room.

Russia nowhere to be found.

I head for the closet and open it, rifling through until I find the Soviet WWII overcoat he's so fond of, along with a few other jackets I've definitely never seen him wear. One of them looks like it's from the sixteen hundreds. I really don't understand what he has against getting rid of old clothes.

I take off my jacket in order to put his on, but I'm not silent about unfastening either, nor have I been silent about breaking and entering, or going through any of Russia's things. So when I close the closet doors, dressed in Russia's medalled greatcoat with Estonia's jacket over my arm, I'm not surprised to find Russia, out of the bathroom, on the other side of the door. He wears his old scarf over a drab grey t-shirt, untucked over black denim. He's adorably rumpled and my heart leaps just at the sight of him.

He looks - _good_. Really good.

I haven't seen him in over a year.

My mouth goes dry and my pulse begins to race.

" _Shumelka, kto ty? Kto by ty ni byl, vykhodi, vykhodiiiiiii!_ " he sing-songs, with a grim smile, scanning the emptiness in front of him. He reaches behind his back and pulls it out slowly - a long, thin piece of metal, his famous pipe. " _Ya svegda vyigrayu v pryaaaatkiiiii..._ "

"It's only me," I reply in a whisper - as someone shrieks with laughter next door - and he relaxes. "Of course it's me. Who else do you know who can disappear on command?"

"Nobody," he admits, and he conceals the pipe behind his back again. He drops his arms to the side. Where the pipe has gone, I don't know. "What are you doing here? You - you did not have to see me this badly, I should think? It has been some time. You must be quite desperate."

How he can even think of - of _other parts_ of our arrangement at a time like this! I shake my head before I remember he can't see me doing it. "Are there wires on you?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "What about the room?" He shrugs.

Just in case the hidden mics are good, I lean in closer and put myself right into his personal space. He still can't see me, but he can definitely feel me pressed up against him. I whisper, as quietly as I can manage. "I don't know whether the subway will take you there fast enough. Estonia said to be there in a half hour, but that was at midnight, and it's already quarter to one."

Russia lets me encroach his personal space and slouches into me to slip into mine. He lowers his head to my shoulders, feeling around with his cheek for my neck so that he can whisper into my ear. "Take me where?" he asks.

I remove the small paper from Estonia with Russia's address from my pants pocket and press it into his hand. As I let go it rematerialises, and he unfolds it only long enough to read the words. " _Na Vorobyovykh Gorakh?_ " he says. "It will be difficult. Worst part is going to be trying to lose people who followed you here."

I sulk a bit. I thought I'd mostly done a good job of avoiding a tail. But I shouldn't underestimate his paranoia or the quality of Russia's spies. "Then - will you make the meeting? What if Estonia leaves without you?"

He smiles against my cheek. "Estonia has high ground there," he says, "he can see all of this city at once, and this will reassure him, even at night. Also, he is used to my being late, and this will give him chance to - how you say, bitch at me for ten minutes. He enjoys this."

I pull out the spare pair of glasses from the jacket pocket - I notice the frames have been removed - and put them in his hand. Then I give him my jacket, and pull off the hat that hid most of my hair. A red hat: noticeable but smart. Against light-coloured hair, people notice the hat, not the hair colour. If someone is questioned about the man walking in Sparrow Hills with the red hat, they won't remember the exact shade of hair down to yellow-blond hair or ash-blond.

Russia puts the glasses on obediently. He even looks good in those! He looks _very_ good in those. They give him a more mature air and - and I didn't think it was possible to want him more but he looks like a more bookish version of himself. He gives me a sweet, shy smile and I melt a little.

There's not much I can do about the physical size difference between us. At least Estonia's jacket is loose on me, so when Russia shrugs it on, it fits him pretty well. Hugs his torso nicely. He fills it out a lot more attractively than I did. We're both wearing dark pants and black shoes. Nothing much to change there. And I guess I've been in Russia's pants figuratively enough that I don't need the literal version.

The last thing to go is the scarf. He tucks the hat under his arm and removes the scarf from his neck, still coiled up. He can't see me yet, and so he gropes around for my shoulder. When he doesn't find it within a few seconds I grab his hand and direct him, and the scarf disappears as he places it on me, still warm from the heat of his body. He smiles grimly and pulls the collar of the jacket up, then tucks his hair back under the hat.

I walk him to the door. To someone waiting outside, watching the scene on a thermal camera - if they're even paying attention this time of night - they must see their representative having walked from the bathroom, to the hall closet, putting on an article of clothing - possibly talking to himself, acting like there's someone else in the house, but there is unmistakably only one figure on the camera - and then walking to the door. They know he won't go farther than the door.

"I must thank you for this later," he says to me. "This is - I did not expect this. I did not expect you. But I needed to meet with Estonia. He has something to tell me, I do not know what, but I am certain is not good. He does not want to talk to me usually! So I deduce, is important news for him to have overcome his distaste for me."

"Don't get too mad at him," I say. "Not if you have bigger fish to fry."

Russia considers this and nods. "Then I hope it is something that will also help me, with my problems. If so, perhaps I can forgive Estonia's transgressions! Stranger things have happened."

Then he lowers his voice to sultry, bedroom-levels and murmurs huskily, "Canada, I will owe you very big."

It's his voice that gives me pause. I have been doing him these ...favours, for awhile now. And in return he does _favours_ for me. Is that what we are to each other? Estonia's words drift back to me. _It always 'just happens'. Standard trick he uses._  I wonder if Russia feels like a whore yet. I know I do.

"It's Matt," I reply, reminding him.

But I can't make myself say it. Can't say that it's alright, that he doesn't owe me, that he doesn't have to sleep with me to get my help, that - that I'd rather he slept with me because he wants to, because he loves me.

I want him to love me.

I won't be some 'standard trick'.

"Yes," he replies, distracted. "Matvei, who delivers the message from the son to the devil. _Kak polezno_.” He turns, at the last moment, and blindly reaches out for me. He makes contact first with my shoulders, and wraps his hands around them to figure out where on my body he's touching. When he's put it together he wraps his fingers around the back of my neck and directs my face up with his thumbs, digging into my jaw.

He kisses my neck - his apartment is freezing, his breath as it makes contact with my wet skin is a shock - and rumbles against it, " _Ohh_ \- yes, I will thank you for this later. More properly. Tell me you will have a little time? Matvei, it has been a _year_ , certainly you must want? Because I _want_."

"J-just come back with good news, that's all you have to do," I reply shakily.

Russia mouths his way to my ear, where he whispers, "Hmm, I have sinking feeling that giving blowjobs would be much easier than that."

God, now I really do feel like a whore, and that should piss me off, it should make my blood boil, but it makes my stomach flipflop and my heart flutter instead. Traitorous body. He can probably feel the way my skin shivers under the touch of his lips. "Be careful."

"I can handle watchers without trick like yours," he says with a wink. I hope his confidence isn't bluster. "Shame we do not all do that. I could avoid my bosses so easily - none of this would have occurred. Ah, well." That's a good point. It is really too bad he can't use this while he's out and about. _I_ won't need it for the next hour. If only I could loan it to him for his use! Well, there's nothing to be done about that, is there?

Russia departs. The second he opens the door and steps past the threshold outside, I drop my invisibility and shut the door behind him.

Then, as Russia - dressed in his overcoat, with his scarf - I go to the living room window, where I sit with my back to it for the FSB van to examine. I look down; they don't seem to be moving. It must have worked. I'm prepared to sit here for the next hour or so until Russia returns and gives me what he thinks he owes me.

But come to think of it... now that I'm here...

I leap up off the window sill and bend down to a pile of magazines in a basket next to the chesterfield.

I wish I could honestly say that I'm far more interested in what Estonia has to report. I am, but only slightly. The rest of me thinks of the heat of Russia's body pressed against mine, the cool wet patch on my neck where his tongue was...

But I can't afford to get distracted with either topic, as amusing as the option strikes me. I've been given three hours alone, in one of Russia's houses. It's free reign to poke my nose in whatever business I like. And he still hasn't told me what it is he really needs help for, and there are so many questions he's left unanswered - and the more that pop up, the more I feel he's doing it on purpose.

America's words have gotten me thinking too. I might be sleeping with him but that doesn't mean I trust him, because I don't. And notice Estonia, when _he_ needed my help? He got right to the point and didn't mess around.

\--

Thirty minutes later finds me having gone through the living room, the study, the kitchen and the bedroom, finding nothing of any real value. I've taken a few pictures around the apartment, but none of it seems relevant. It's so - _clean_. He didn't know I was coming, right? Then he shouldn't have had time to clear out anything! I don't understand, if he's been living here for some time then he should have had correspondences - documents - something, anything? What kind of guy keeps a 14th century style fur-lined cape in his closet, but cleans out his wastepaper basket religiously?

Unless, of course, they hardly ever _send_ him these materials anymore. I remember Russia saying that he wasn't allowed access to his own constitution. And if his own borders were made fuzzy without his knowledge, as I suspect has happened, then he wouldn't be given access to border treaties, either. In fact... maybe they don't let him have any access to _anything_ that goes on. On one hand, no paperwork. On the other hand, no control.

There's a laptop on the bed but it's password-protected, and nothing I give it seems to work. If only I were as good at technological things as Estonia. He could probably have had this cracked by now. I contemplate taking it with me, but I don't have much of an exit strategy for it, beyond turning invisible and walking out with it under my shirt. Could I get away with that? Hmm....

It's as I'm thinking that I hear the key in the hole from the outside. It must be Russia. I need to move, greet him at the door and be invisible again.

\- when suddenly my glance falls down at the wardrobe.

And behind it, a single letter, folded in thirds, tucked away behind it, barely visible.

My eyes grow wide.

I don't even hesitate. I don't know what it is, what it says, but that _doesn't matter_ , if it's important enough to be concealed then _I want it_.

I bend down, snatch the letter, and am folding it up again to put it in my pants pocket next to my wallet as I briskly tiptoe across the tiny apartment to the door.

Just as Russia enters, and I re-invisibilify. One person in the apartment, once more.

He closes the door behind him quietly, with an expression of uncertainty as he scans the room. "Are you still here?" he whispers.

I pluck the hat off his head and hang it on the coat hooks. "Still here," I reply. His face breaks out into a mad grin. "Good news?"

"Ah! the very worst," he replies gleefully, as he sheds Estonia's jacket and pitches it to the floor. He gropes for me in midair and finds my shoulders first. "Mmm, make it up to me?"

"Russia," I scold. I take his hands off my shoulders. "What did he say? I need to know."

Russia scowls. "No, you don't," he says, and he begins to sulk. "Is between me and him, it does not concern you. Secret is out, now, it does not matter. Estonia is free. But I am not! Since you are so very curious you may go ask him yourself - why, _you_ can leave anytime you wish -"

I sigh loudly enough for him to hear over his stupid pouting. "I didn't mean it like that," I say.

"Then... can we stop talking about stupid Estonia and start talking about something more fun?" Russia is smiling again.

"Uh," I trail off. "Like what?"

"Hmm, I have few ideas. Let me show you!" He moves towards me and reaches out his hand to take mine in his. He's become very adept at figuring out where my body is - I double check that I haven't suddenly reappeared.

"Russia -" He brushes his thumb across my palm and twists his hand to thread our fingers together. It's difficult to think when he touches me so gently. "Look, I can't really ..."

"It's been a full year," he reminds me. He leans in closer, nuzzling my neck, and whispers, "You must know how I dreamed of you." His other hand drifts toward my belly to untuck my shirt from my pants at the waist. "Ah, please!"

I can't say no to that. Well, I could, but as Russia worms his way inside my shirt, I find I don't want to. He drifts his hand up and I find I _really_ don't want to. So I let him remove his old greatcoat from my shoulders and drop it on the ground where it reappears around my ankles. Which reminds me. "How can we - but - they'll see me -" He starts in on the buttons on my shirt.

"You will have to stay hidden," he says. "Do you think you can do that, Canada? Remain hidden, stay silent?" He pushes my shirt off my shoulders to give him plenty more skin to kiss, along my neck, up to my ear. "As I do my very best to make you scream?"

My knees grow significantly weaker. Russia prods gently at me and I let him direct me, walking us both to the bedroom. Somewhere along the way I lose the shirt. He topples me onto the bed and puts a knee on the bed himself, between my thighs. "Hang on," I interrupt, "let me get my shoes off -"

"Yes, take them off, take everything off!" Russia says excitedly, "If I can't see then, _oh_ , let me _feel!_ "

He sounds so desperate. Desperate for _me_.

My skin prickles and I feel it slip into translucence again. It takes a moment of thought before it disappears again.

 _you came here to help - don't think it's fair - can't access it - turn it on and off as you want_ \- control it -

A whisper?

But there's nobody around.

Russia above me hasn't noticed my distraction.

Concentrate, Matthew...

I tug off my shoes, then let Russia undo my pants and ease them past my hips, as I get his shirt undone and slip my fingers inside. He's incredibly warm. It's so wonderful to touch him! "This apartment is freezing, how do you stand it so cold?" I ask.

"This way, my bosses and the people watching me don't want to spend much time in here! They stay out. But look," he offers, "we can get underneath the covers."

That sounds like a good idea. In fact, like an excellent idea, but as I get inside - it's much warmer now, yes, how could this possibly be a bad idea - watching as Russia strips off his shirt, then his pants and underwear and socks I realise:

I am naked. I am in bed with him.

This is... this is pretty much the textbook definition of intimate, and am I really alright with that?

Not for the first time I have a sinking feeling about this.

But - he's right - it has been a while. It's been a year. A year in which I've been trying not to think of him and failing miserably, shoving my hand in my pants and jacking off to the memory of his voice, his face, his body, his warmth - and for what? for a sad lonely climax that hurts me more and more the longer his absence in my life goes on, and now I've got him all in front of me, great big Russia, hard for me, aching for me - I've waited a year for this, what am I complaining for now?

Russia gropes around for me, and upon finding me he grins and slips between the covers after me. He traces along my torso to my neck, feeling where I am. Once he's figured it out he leans in, grabs me around the shoulders - how is he _so warm_ \- and sucks at my neck, hard - that'll leave a mark but I don't care, it has me shivering in his arms with how good it feels. He slides his hands smoothly down my body, warm, soft, skin, pressed up against mine, to hold my hips. He's already hard, he's _so_ hard, I can't believe how much he wants me, it makes me glad I'm already horizontal or my knees would give out. I put my arms around him and arch up into him, sighing in his ear.

Then he flips us over so that I'm on top of him, straddling him, my thighs either side of his waist, our cocks pressed together. "Like this," Russia explains between kisses. "This way they cannot tell it is not just me at home, bored, alone, thinking of you..." He gets a hand between our bodies and presses his erection against mine, then strokes us together. Feels so good I have to shut my eyes and strain not to moan aloud. "As I always do, is my nightly routine."

Thinking of Russia, at home, alone, touching himself - thinking of me - makes me gasp and I thrust into his grip. "Yes, like that, exactly," he hisses, his eyes clenched shut.

My breath begins to thin out. Panting, I whisper, "Every night, eh, really?"

"Can't help myself," he mutters. I shift against him, fucking his hand, squirming against his hot skin.

"They're always watching," I argue.

"Ah! - I don't care, I like it, let them watch, that's what they get for putting me up in here, not letting me see you, not letting me touch you -" Russia bites his lip and turns his face, going bright red as he says, "- not giving me what's mine -"

I shut my mouth, breathing hard through my nose, trying not to make a single sound as I come hard against his stomach. Russia strokes us both a few more times - I'm so supersensitive but he wrings everything out of me until I'm shaking, my mind is mush - until he comes too, warm and hot over his hand, pressed against me. I feel his cock pulse against mine. Every part of his lower half is pressed against me, tangled up in me. He opens his eyes blearily below me, and gives me a sated smile.

Undeniably intimate. I find I don't so much mind. Oh, I could spend all night like this. I could spend _every_ night like this.

That... scares me a little bit.

"I- I'd better get going," I say.

Russia wraps his arms around my waist and tumbles me forward, pitching me onto his chest and pinning me to him. "Just one more moment," he says, so sweetly I hate to argue.

"Estonia won't wait forever."

"Yes he will!" But Russia releases me with a pout.

I leave the bed with no small measure of disappointment. Russia watches thoughtfully from it as my clothing slowly disappears from the room when I pick it up and put it back on. "You are lucky," he murmurs, "anybody says or does something you do not like, you don't have to sit there and take it. Like I do. _You_ could do anything you wanted. _You_ could leave, if you were in my position. They would never find you."

I guess that's true. I've never before considered my little talent very worthwhile, having mostly been more harm than good, but Russia seems fascinated by it.

"Well. Better if I do not walk you to the door," Russia says. "According to my watchers, I have already been around that area twice this evening. Dangerous. Perhaps I am getting ideas of freedom."

That reminds me. "You could've left too," I say.

"Hm?"

"When you met with Estonia." I return to the bed and sit on it. My weight makes an indent but there's no other trace of me. Russia splays his fingers on the bedspread, drags them across the cloth to my thigh, where he places his hand. Like comfort, like reassurance. I smile before I remember that he can't see it, so I put my hand over his instead. "You could've just left."

"They would have caught me eventually," Russia argues. "And what of you?"

"Me?" I laugh derisively. But it's nice that Russia was thinking of me. "You said it yourself, someone does anything I don't like, I have no problem getting away. I could get out of this country easily, nobody can see me. But you - they've got you under arrest, and tonight was your first night out in - how long?"

"Every three weeks, they permit me a visit," he says. "But only to Kreml'. Not my idea of getaway!" Russia smiles, but realises that none of this answers my question and becomes serious. "I could have left, yes. You are correct." He swallows. "It would only have made it harder for me in the end. I must pick my battles. This is not one of them."

"They've had you cooped up for a _year_ already."

Russia shrugs. "I am patient."

I get up off the bed. "You may see me again, sooner than you think," Russia says cryptically.

"What do you mean?"

He smiles his little I-have-a-secret smile. "Estonia has one more little favour to repay me before he may sleep tonight. Our work is not yet done."

I check my watch. "It's nearly three in the morning." What could he possibly be doing now?

"Yes," Russia says. "It is the perfect time. We have changeover at three am, fewer guards around until morning shift, beginning at 5."

I'm confused. "Fewer guards around what?"

"Why," says Russia sweetly, "the Kremlin."

"Has it been three weeks?"

Russia smiles again, and this one seems dangerous. "Go and meet our little Baltic friend," he instructs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in an alternate reality in which Moscow has a Chinatown!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Ey! eto on, kanadyets, on zdyes': hey! that's him, the Canadian, he's here  
> Horosho - khvatay yemu, oni khotyat, chtoby: good, grab him, they want so that [cut off]  
> Chto? Kak-to mirazh?: What? Some kind of mirage?  
> Ty videl muzhchinu? V krasnoy shapke? Skazhi, gde on poshel?: Did you see a man? With a red hat? Tell me, where'd he go?  
> Da ... pravilno, no - ... my sdelayem rabotu, ne volnuytes'!: Yes... right, but - ... we'll get it done, don't worry!  
> Shumelka, kto ty? Kto by ty ni byl, vykhodi, vykhodiiiiiii! Ya svegda vyigrayu v pryaaaatkiiiii: Noisemaker, who are you? Whoever you are, come out, come out! I always win at hide-and-seek...  
> Kak polezno: How useful


	15. Chapter 12

12\. _(moscow, continued)_

Without revisibilifying, I leave the apartment and the building. The van watching Russia is across the street, silently monitoring.

Leaning upon it is the man from before, the brown-haired man with the green eyes. Like Lithuania, but not quite. He notices me watching him and smirks. If that's not invitation, it's provocation, so I walk up to him. The people in the van won't see me. "Alright," I say, "what're you doing here, what's your angle?"

"Just here to remind you," he replies casually, "that it's yours to control. I tried earlier, but - haha! - you weren't listening. That means all kinds of control, you know. One can't catch the wind in a net, but can it be thrown? Though, I'd warn against casting pearls before swine."

I don't understand his cryptic message. This is pissing me off. "Who are you? Why can you see me?"

He doesn't answer me. "Anyway, listen to this old man talk!" he says instead, a little self-deprecatingly. "I'm sure I'm saying nothing important. Don't let me keep you, you've a job to do." He winks, then he walks off behind the van out of sight. When I peer around it, he's gone.

I must be dreaming. Hallucinating. Didn't think I was the type - but whoever that vision is, he's right, I have got a job to do.

Saying nothing important, eh? Hmph. Sounds like France, or England. Contrary to their belief, I'm not naive enough to think my older brother figures don't have worthy advice. But what could he have meant by what he said? Does he really expect me to understand when he talks in riddles like that?

I get as far as the Cherkizovskaya subway station before I spot Estonia, who's already there waiting for me. The fact that he's here meeting me can't be good. I'm still invisible, so he doesn't see me sidle up next to him. I ask under my breath, "Where are we going?"

"Come," he says, "follow me. Keep out of sight. Haven't much time - must be precisely timed!"

I vault the turnstiles and he pays with the proper fare. The coin clinks into the machine and he glides smoothly through, and it's only after we've walked a few paces away that I overhear exactly what I don't want to. " _Vot on?_ " " _Vot on! Zakazy - zaderzhat'_." and then much louder, " _Ey! Ty! Podozhdi!_ "

I may not understand what's being said but I get the gist, given the tone of voice, and the way Estonia stiffens - and most certainly does not stop walking away. The stairs are right in front of him, and a shame that this time of night, there is not much traffic. There's no one and nothing to hide behind.

"The station must be monitored," I tell him, "videocameras, guards, something!"

"It is, you're right," he replies breathlessly, taking the stairs two at a time going down, leaping the last few stairs to the landings interspersed between.

We get to the platform just as the train arrives. Estonia runs a few car lengths before he boards, with me right behind him. The men behind us are gaining, but the cars are separated on this train and as the subway chimes to let us know it's departing, I notice to find only one of them makes it down the stairs to the final door of the last car. He tries to hold the door for his friend but is unsuccessful, and the train takes off with him alone.

We're three cars up. Did he see us? He must have gathered that we boarded - where one man was running away there are now none, his associates will radio in and tell him. With luck, he doesn't know what car we're in. But there are six cars. He knows we're not in his. And there's more than six stops between us and Arbatskaya. He'll find us before then.

"What now?" I ask Estonia.

"Too long between now and the stop. There's nobody on the train," he frets. "Can't hide behind anybody -"

"You could hide behind me, I could make myself visible again."

"No use, no use! We must transfer. Five stops to Komsomolskaya - we must take brown line. It will take us around. Island platform - lot of pillars, we can hide behind, not know where we are or which direction we take. Best we can do, I think."

The train pulls to a stop and the doors open. "You duck," I whisper to Estonia, "I'll watch." I stick my head out the open door to find the man jumping from the first car to the second.

The train takes off again. In the car behind ours, the man races forward to the door where he can see us through the windows between cars. He glares at the both of us, though he sees only Estonia.

We get to the other end of our car. "When I say to, run for next car ahead," Estonia says, ducking for cover behind the seats. "He won't have time to run two car lengths." The train pulls into the next station and comes to a stop, and the doors open, and I watch as the man runs into our car. "Now!" Estonia cries, and we dash ahead to the next, narrowly missing the doors' closing before the train takes off again.

We're in car four now, he's in three. He'll keep coming. And we'll run out of cars to run into.

"That was too close, he'll be ready for that next time," I say. "If only I could just give you this invisibility, he isn't looking for me!"

_just here to remind you that it's yours to control ... can't catch the wind in a net, but can you throw it?_

That's what he meant?!

I realise it suddenly. That's what he meant! He meant - it's mine to control, that I can throw it - I _can_ give it to someone, can't I?

I close my eyes and I can picture it so clearly, what I have to do!

"No time to think about what ifs," Estonia says, panting for breath. "We must do the same, three times more."

"Then what? There's only six cars on this train! We won't have anywhere left to go."

I could do it. I could give Estonia my ability to conceal myself - he could be invisible, and that man isn't looking for me.

"That will get us to Komsomolskaya, then we have to _run_."

So that's exactly what we do, and practice does not make it any easier. By the time the train has pulled away from the last stop, we're in the final car, with the man who's tracking us one car behind. He's walked up to the windows between cars and can see us - can see Estonia - and watches him menacingly.

His mouth is moving, he's saying something. "He says he'll get us and we'll have nice long chat," says Estonia, "typical nonsense threats."

The man is still talking, pounding on the doors that separate us, and yelling so hard there's spittle on the plastic. "That can't be all he's saying," I say dryly.

"Yes, well, I'm not translating what he says that he and his friends are going to carve us up and piss on our faces." Delightful specimen of humanity.

The train pulls into Komsomolskaya. "Say something for me," says Estonia, "repeat after me: 'chto hochesh'."

I do so. "What's that mean?"

"'What do you want'. It's little bit rude. If you sneer it. Just practice, make it sound as close to my pronunciation as possible."

Komsomolskaya station is quite a bit busier, and even though it's the dead of night there's a few people around. The doors pull open, and Estonia is out like a flash to the pillar. He hides behind it and I follow more slowly, invisible, watching the man's movements.

He leaves the car, cracks his knuckles and gives a grin like a grimace, and slowly - he knows where we are, he saw Estonia run - he approaches the pillar where Estonia has hidden behind. "Wait one moment," Estonia whispers. "He will come around here. Wait for him to turn around, try to find me, and then, you become visible. Look casual. Ask him what he wants."

Two seconds - the man turns the corner - one second - Estonia turns as well, keeping the pillar between them - and I become visible.

The man finds me, instead of Estonia, my legs crossed in front of me and my arms folded. He looks mean and ugly and it's not acting at all to glare right back at him. " _Gde -?_ " he asks. " _Kto ty?_ "

" _Chto hochesh'?_ " I ask him with a sneer. He waves me off rudely and continues walking around the pillar.

Estonia reappears at my other side, and tugs at my sleeve to grab my attention. He points to the escalator in front of us. _Now_ , he mouths.

We run. Stairs - two at a time. Go. _Go!!_

The man hears us making a break for it pretty fast and clambers up the stairs after us, screaming for us to wait, but we have a lead on him of about ten paces. We ignore him. I've never run faster. "Invisible or not?" I ask Estonia.

"Not important!" he yells behind. "Keep like that, is okay. Follow me! Get to next train!"

The platform at the top of the stairs links to the brown line - there are coloured signs helpfully posted - and the train is already there, its doors closing. "Quickly!" Estonia urges.

"Is it going the right way?"

"Not important!"

We slide into the car with a second to spare. The doors close, the man reaches the top of the staircase, ten paces from the train. The train pulls away.

He watches us as we speed off into the tunnel, and I wave him goodbye.

The man gets so angry he removes his hat, throws it on the ground and stomps on it. (I didn't know people did that outside of the movies. He must be _really mad_.)

The two of us are out of breath. "It's circle," Estonia explains, through pants. "Direction doesn't matter, we get to Arbatskaya eventually."

We get off at Kievskaya, switch to the dark blue line, and take this train one stop to Arbatskaya without any trouble, without any tail. When we get to the station, Estonia tells me to act natural, and follow him.

It's about two blocks before I notice. "We're being followed again," I mutter.

"Just be natural," Estonia says through gritted teeth. "Pretend not exist. We're fine. We are two regular, ordinary people." Two people walking around embassy territory at three am. Perfectly normal behaviour. Yes.

The men following us are different from the one who was following us on the subway. Different uniform. Have Petrova's people co-opted multiple parts of city security to find us? Estonia can't possibly be that important to her! What sort of things does he _know?_

"Quickly now," says Estonia, and we round a building. I hear the men approach faster, their steps closer to jogging. "Quickly, quickly," he repeats, and takes out of his pocket two small, thin pieces of metal. We approach a door and he crouches down to take a closer look at the lock.

"Are you _breaking in?!_ " I whisper incredulously.

"It's not breaking in if you have key," he replies. He starts picking the lock right in front of me.

"Then you have a key?"

"Well, no. Not important, it's my embassy, it's my land! He gave it to me."

"Oh, so you didn't _take_ it then!"

Estonia looks a little upset. "He told you," he says.

"He didn't," I reply, "I figured it out. You took land from him, and that's why his borders are fuzzy -"

The men turn the corner. " _Oy! Derzhite, vorov!_ " one cries. The other is immediately on a radio, speaking into it for backup.

"Quickly!" Estonia says a final time, as the lock clicks open. He turns the handle, opens the door, ushers us both inside and slams the door in the faces of the men following us. He throws his skinny body up against it and engages all the locks.

Sanctuary. We're safe.

"Why here?" I ask Estonia.

"Here," he replies - and he pushes himself off the door and walks into the hallway proper, "I can get into some of the places we'll need." He leads me through a maze in the building, all darkened hallways and twists and turns, upstairs, downstairs, until we stop in front of a door that looks like all the others. Estonia pulls out a plastic fob from his keyring and swipes it on the pad at the side, and with a green light the access is granted. Nice to know we won't have to break into everything.

It's a computer lab. Small room, with three cubicles, a workstation apiece. He makes for one of them and sits himself down. The screen wakes up when he jiggles the mouse and in a flash of keystrokes he's deep into it: the computer screen looks like a desktop but not like any version of Windows or Mac OS I've ever seen. Then Estonia plugs in a usb key and opens up a program called 'Terminal'. This looks like real hacking. He gives the computer command codes, typing lightning fast, and this program is black with green text.

He maximises it and it fills the screen. All he needs now is to crank the brightness up so high the text reflects on his face and it looks like every other sci-fi I've ever met.

"What are you doing?" I ask him.

"I have to delete some of Russia's homework here," Estonia replies absently. "Most important, remove all these copies of List of Non-Significant Changes to Constitution, Permission of Notifications, and Advisory Statements on Regulatory Services of Nation Behaviour. If those files that he signed don't exist, he can legally make the changes he needs, such as a reversion of whatever they put in his Constitution as it applies to Russia, the being."

I recognise all of these. A Constitution can't be changed without that country's knowing about it and that country has to sign off on those - unless the changes are deemed 'non-significant'. The List of Non-Significant Changes establishes what falls under that category. Regulatory Services grants any of our signatures some administrative power, and means that our position as termed as 'the nation' is secure and fixed. It sounds simple but it's far-reaching: in any document which begins, 'hereafter termed "the nation"', that's intended to mean us.

The problem is, these files are pretty deep in the bureaucracy system. I know for a fact that in order to get access to these, the nation in question has to first grant access via a plethora of forms and declarations. There's a whole _other_ set of forms to have the text of these documents changed - and those usually require the agreement of a federal clerk or notary. Depending on the country in question, sometimes a judge or a senator. They're not easy to tinker with, and that's why we call them 'Documents Under the Flag', as they're given a good amount of protection.

But every single piece of movement through the system - every form granting access, every proposed change - should have been CC'd Russia himself.

Unless the Permission of Notifications had been altered. If that were so, important documents could be changed and he wouldn't receive receipt of them. And if the Regulatory Services Advisory and Non-Significant Changes documents were altered without his knowledge, then the Constitution could be significantly altered without Russia knowing.

Everything Russia mentioned that his bosses had done to him... without his knowing... it's all possible. And if it's possible for him, it's possible for any country's boss to do it. Does Colin know about this? Is this what his threat to me was all about?

"But the Constitution would have had to be altered first," I argue softly, more to myself than Estonia. "Isn't there that line that says changes for Documents Under the Flag are to be requested with approval carried only by official law?"

"I don't ask any more questions," Estonia replies dully. "Just let's do this, and leave. _Kurat küll!_ What idiot signs things without even looking at them. Russia, that's who. Well, if I delete everything with such signatures and that permission, then there is nothing blocking him anymore. Should restore his awareness within few hours. To do that, we have to eliminate those files' existence."

It takes five minutes, while I watch him over his shoulders, stunned, and Estonia types away, occasionally humming to himself alternately in satisfaction and perplexion. Nobody comes to bother us. Then again, we're on Estonian territory and I'm still invisible. As far as they know, this is nothing more than Estonia visiting his embassy. It's a bit strange, sure, this time of the day, four in the morning, but the people who report to Petrova or Borovsky must not have gotten word back to them yet. Still, we shouldn't linger.

At last, Estonia says, "Done," and hits 'enter' one more time. Then he gives a few more commands. "Just to be sure, just to be sure," he murmurs. Satisfied, he closes the terminal and removes the usb key. "Alright. Truly finished. Let's get out of here." He leaps out of the chair and is down the hall in the blink of an eye.

I'm quick on his heels. "You're done?? Already? Aren't there backups? I-I thought you couldn't delete anything off a cloud server."

Estonia flashes a grins back. " _You_ can't, but _I_ can. Those are my servers - Petrova and Borovsky are about to find out that that's the price you pay for Estonian outsourced technolabour. I _always_ have control."

Sounds good, if he's not being overly proud about his achievements. "What do we do now?"

"Now, we get the files." He pushes open a door to a stairwell and takes the stairs down two at a time, jumping to the landings.

"What files?"

"The files I mentioned?" Estonia looks up at me like I'm an idiot. "List of Non-Significant Changes, Permission of Notifications, Regulatory Services? Come on, keep up."

"I thought you just did that." He sure looked like he was deleting whole piles of stuff.

"Those were some of them, only copies. There's still more. If we don't get all of the most recent - or, enough of them to discredit others - then they may be copied and we've done nothing. At least all the signed ones. But there are some remaining in computers under lock and key and -" Estonia pauses momentarily to check his watch - "those will back up to the external system in approximately twenty minutes. If I don't want to undo all the work I just did, I need to wipe the originals before they have the chance to self-replicate back onto the cloud."

"Okay, so what's next, we get the ones that are under lock and key?"

"Yes."

"And those files are in the Kremlin," I guess.

Estonia swallows and a look of deep concern crosses his face. Three flights down now and he pushes open the door to a sub-basement level; cement hallways narrow, the ceiling unfinished and ductwork exposed above our heads. The air is stuffy and clammy here. "Yes," replies Estonia quietly. He checks his watch again. "We have a little over five minutes."

"I thought you said we had twenty minutes."

"We have twenty minutes until daily dialout and internet access is permitted to the servers I need. These servers, you see, take cybersecurity measures - only allow access to upload to cloud once a day. But they don't allow incoming traffic, so, not good. I'll have to access the servers physically. To do that, we have to get to Kremlin. So, we have five minutes until we meet Russia. If he wants me to do this... he gets us in."

Meet Russia? At the Kremlin? "But he's under house arrest in Chinatown. How could he leave and be here so soon? There's agents in a van monitoring him!"

Estonia fixes me with a sad, pitying look. "Poor Canada. Do you really believe everything he says? The agents in that van are asleep."

"How? Who would -"

"He knocked them out, evidently! Either after he left the apartment or before he returned to you. I suspect after he left. He likes making me wait for things and he was late to meeting with me. Now come on!" he says. "We've less than four minutes!"

We pass down another hallway into a single door, unmarked. Estonia pushes through. The hallway here is dark - emergency lights only. Estonia pulls out his phone and lights the rest of the way with it, so I do the same.

After a few minutes' breathless run, we finally come to a hall lit by a shaft of light. A shadow of a man waits there behind a barrier of thick bars: big-boned and beautiful.

My heart leaps. It's him.

Russia is smiling when we get close enough to him for me to watch his face. "I told you we might see each other once more," he says slyly.

"So you did," I reply. Estonia and I watch as Russia unlocks the gate and swings the heavy door open to let us in.

"First level, server room," says Estonia. "How to get there?"

Russia smiles icily and extends his hand in a mocking display of hostliness. "Follow me."

We move quietly through the HVAC tunnel. Russia at least seems to know where he's going. "Do you have keys?" I ask.

"Pah!" he scoffs, "you think they trust me with somehting like that? I will find a way in."

"If you can get us through to first level," offers Estonia, "I have keys to server room."

"Of course they give keys to their little servant!" Russia mutters darkly.

"Just move!"

We ascend the stairs and come to a basement level - the ceilings are finished though cheaply, with porous white fibreboard, stained oddly, and the occasional fluorescent light fixture, tinted any shade _but_ natural. Russia ushers us next to a room, and Estonia swipes a keycard on the pass. It flashes to let us in.

Another computer lab, though this one has only the one computer at a single workstation. The rest of the room is taken up by towers and towers of flashing lights on metal racks. It looks like a room full of baker's sheet pan racks, if all the bread were replaced by LEDs peeping out of black rectangles.

Estonia immediately sits down at the computer and gets to work. "How much time," asks Russia.

"Thirteen minutes now," Estonia says.

"And is that enough time for you to finish what you started?"

"It will have to be," he huffs.

Russia leans on the workstation desk and folds his arms over his chest, then gives Estonia a sweet grin. "What can we do to assist? I like to be helpful!"

Estonia narrows his eyes and doesn't take his gaze off the screen. "I need you to go and fetch those papers so you can destroy them."

"They'll see me on cameras!" Russia protests.

"You can't go by tunnel?"

"They're in Borovsky's office, is second floor, opposite side of this building. Would take me too long to go by tunnel."

"It's called running for your life," Estonia says flatly, "try it sometime."

Russia grins nastily, ear-to-ear. "Don't argue with me, little bird, or you'll sing no more. Is quicker by stairs. And there I can guarantee I have easy passage without locks and gates. But cameras will still see me!"

"Can we disable them?" I ask.

Estonia shakes his head. "There's no time for that. _You'll_ have to fetch papers - you can make yourself invisible."

"Pah! He doesn't know what he's looking for!" protests Russia.

"Of course he doesn't!" Estonia shouts. "Because you're tight lipped as ever about your problems, I forgot! Why even tell your little boyfriend! Not like he can _help you_ or anything!"

Russia makes a sound somewhere between a sneer and a growl. "I grow tired of how you talk back to me, I am being nice but I can be being mean any moment."

" _You_ wanted favour from _me!_ " Estonia's eyes don't leave the screen, his anger is notable only through the stabbing of the keyboard, but his fingers have begun to shake. Whether from rage or because Russia's threats are working on him, I can't tell. "You ought to know by now, this mouth comes with this territory. Given how often you help yourself to it!"

" _Zakroy klyub, zhopoy_ -"

"Guys!" I clap to get their attention. "Focus. We're wasting time."

Estonia's eyes dart to the computer's clock. "Shit. Ten minutes. I'll never do it in ten minutes."

"I shall have to remove cameras," Russia concludes. He reaches behind his back and produces that dratted pipe of his. "I shall have to do it forcibly. I have secret weapon!"

"Okay. Yeah. Let's - let's make that a last minute plan," I suggest.

"Hey, it's his government," Estonia says. "He's okay with property damage, it's on his head - _shit!_ "

"What?" Both Russia and I lean in to look at his work on the screen. Nothing seems wrong. But then, to me it's all just text.

"Some copies are on Borovsky's computer," Estonia replies.

"How can you know?" asks Russia.

"Look, here." He points to the text. "File's been accessed recently, but not from these machines. Who else does that leave? Petrova or Borovsky, and easiest thing to do would be to make local copy - it's what I would do -"

"You're right, it must be him," says Russia. "What to do?"

"Two things. First, I can't complete this in -" Estonia checks the time on the screen again - "nine minutes. So I need these servers dismantled. Remove all network connections until I can figure out where copies are."

"That will take too long," Russia says.

"Then _smash them_ ," Estonia spits back. "You're the one with the pipe."

"And two?" I ask.

Estonia grimaces. "I need Borovsky's computer. And any USB-mälupulga - stick - he might have nearby. You'd better hope he didn't take any of that home."

Russia shoots me a panicked look. "He hates working from home. Probably, is in his office, same as files," he suggests.

"But the cameras!"

"Damn the cameras!" snaps Russia, "I need those files, no matter what! If Borovsky keeps copies with my signature then all we have done tonight is useless!"

"If they see you on cameras, they send guards after you," Estonia reminds.

Russia looks about him, somewhat desperately, only to find he's still got his pipe in hand. He seems to view it with new eyes, as though he doesn't remember having removed it. Surprised that it's there, in a way. "Ah!" he announces, "but I have this!"

To use - ? on the _guards?!_

"Violence?? They're - Russia, they're your own people! You can't suggest -" I say incredulously, at the same time that Estonia says, "Your people, your problems, I suggest you get to work! Someone get at those servers!"

"Agreed," says Russia darkly, and he swiftly leaves the room.

This is awful! He can't kill his own, it won't do him any good!

It's now or never, what do I do? I can't let him kill people! The morality issue aside, that will only cause more trouble than it's worth! We can't cover up the bodies. We can barely manage covering our tracks from being here. And it'll drive him mad to have to get his hands dirty like that. Murdering his own. The second he spills his own blood he'll flip!

No, he can't, he can't! And Russia needs to find Borovsky's computer and office - and only he knows what he's looking for - but _I'm_ the one who can make themselves invisible -

Of course!

I can give someone else the power, can't I?

An echo returns to me: _You came here to help little Rus', the Muscovy child, didn't you?_ A dream I had... I thought...

But that's got to be the solution. That strange brown-haired man must have appeared to warn me - it was to tell me about this.

I don't even hesitate, I just jump into action.

"Hey - where are you going?" asks Estonia as I get to the door.

"To get something to use on those servers. When I knock, let me back in," I tell him, and disappear after Russia down the hall.

I find him around the corner, about to enter a stairwell leading up. "Wait!"

He stops. "What do you want?"

"I have an idea," I say. "I can't be seen, but you know where these files are. You have something I need to finish the job at the servers, and I have what you need to get to Borovsky's office."

"I don't _need_ anything but this," Russia replies with a smirk, fondling the pipe suggestively.

"There's an easier way," I argue. "Take my invisibility power. I'll give it to you! But only on the condition that you give me that."

He pouts. "You don't let me have any fun," he complains.

I glare at him. "Give me the pipe. I can't trust you with it."

Russia clutches it to his chest like a child with a plush toy. "It's _mine!_ Get your own."

I hold my hand out and try not to budge. "You know it's not right."

Slowly, Russia approaches me with a satisfied smirk. Step, by step, by step, as he smacks the pipe into the palm of his hand threateningly. His face grows more sinister with each pace. A dark cloud seems to grow around us, and the air grows thick with danger.

"You don't get to tell me what _right_ is," says Russia with a sick grin. " _This_ -" he waves the pipe in the air - "determines who is __right_._ "

I breathe deeply to calm my own sense of growing doom and panic, of ice in my veins. Why is he intimidating me like this? "Russia," I say patiently, and stand my ground.

For a moment we stare each other down. Whatever Russia is thinking, I don't know - I thought I knew him but here he is advertising his intent. He looks like he's ready to kill me. Not that he could really do anything permanent; he could bash my head in and I'll just wake up, though I'd be in immense trouble. But his citizens don't have that luxury.

Still, I'm hoping, I'm praying... don't we have any effect on each other? Isn't that what Hungary said about Turkey, all those years ago? In those documents I sent him?

Something must switch in his mind, because he relents, and sighs, having lost an argument. "Fine," he says, and his entire body relaxes. Then he looks around for a moment. "Why am I here?" he asks.

I don't reply.

How many Russias am I dealing with?

Is this the one I fell for?

Russia begins to shake, his shoulders rolling, his face downcast and miserable. "Something is happening to me, Canada," he whispers.

I'm shaking my head in disbelief. "What did they _do_ to you last year?"

"Not just last year," Russia replies. "It goes back further than that. I should not _be_ here. Why am I here? What were we doing?"

"You wanted Estonia to remove the signed copies of every file that let Petrova and Borovsky take advantage of you," I prompt.

"Yes," says Russia slowly. "Ye-es... I see now. I see what must be done." He whispers, "I have to see it through." He looks down at the pipe in his hands, again with genuine confusion. "I am far stronger when I have resources like this," he says, turning it over. "Something like secret weapon. Why do you think I was such good adversary for your brother? But... why now? What is this for? I don't need this. Why did I think I needed this?"

"You don't," I reply, and I take a slow step forward. "Good, then you can give it to me." I have my hands out, both to placate and receive. "Give me the pipe, please, Russia."

He obediently sticks his arm forth, and I take the pipe by the neck, and pull.

Russia pulls back, yanking me into his personal space. He smiles widely, and with his other arm, loops it around my waist. Firmly, possessively. So I can't leave. And for a moment my fears return - what is he going to do to me?

But it presses me into him, into his chest, the pipe sandwiched between us. We are so close now our lips are within touching distance. It's a very compromising position.

I'm not stupid enough to mistake this for what it is - wholly unromantic and entirely about power. That does not stop me from being hot and bothered anyway, and I tilt my head like I'm expecting to be kissed. But I think we've established previously that I have Serious Problems where Russia is concerned.

"I will give it in exchange, Matvei," he murmurs silkily. "As you proposed. My secret weapon, for yours," he finishes, his voice sultry, his eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted in a half-grin - dammit, I have to stop noticing these things, I might wind up reading into his actions something that he doesn't want.

Of course I know why he's structured this the way he has; the instant he pulled me to him I had guessed. The ... exchange that we're about to undergo requires a certain intimacy, a certain closeness. This is what he wants, this exchange... Of power! Exchange _of power._

I am pretty sure I know what to do here, so I steel myself by taking a deep breath, and exhaling it fully. My next breath, I think, will require meditation on every part of me that has been ignored, ever, and for all of the reasons why; and a full focus on the why. It's the why that I need.

I begin, and suddenly it's like I'm on a different plane of existence altogether -

h im              he's here            it was hi m     -

Everything of Walpurgisnacht comes flooding back to me.

 _Kleckis_ , I realise. Prussia's old friend - Old Prussia - _Baltic_ Prussia - it was him all along. I have him to thank for this. For all of this!

And he took three of my fingers to do it. I look down at my right hand to find they're gone. Only my index finger and my thumb are wrapped around the pipe. The other three are stumps.

Something to help Russia? Yeah, this'll help Russia.

I remember,        (give it to me)         Alfred, Francis, Arthur, no birthday cards         (give it to him)         Arthur barely notices my becoming a Dominion;         (my curse)         in fact, it's more         (get rid get rid of it)         economical for me to disappear. More people have heard of my famous comedians, my actors, my artists, than they've heard of Canada.         (all my sons and daughters more popular than i am, the world thinks they're american)         And who was it who retook Vimy Ridge? - ten percent of my children, gone to fight in Europe in battles - according to the world, the Brits did it, I'm sure

(a selfless act voluntary risk life and limb                                                        

                                        do it because it's the right thing to do)

At some point they become not Alfred, not Francis, not Arthur, but America, France and England.         (that thing it is that makes you yourself)         I am so far back I do not know their names.         (the right thing to do)         They do not know me.         (he wants it? let him have it, give it to him)

I am a pawn in France's constant one-upmanship with England.         (give him yourself)         A few acres of snow. That's all.         (hand yourself over)         Scotland briefly visits and leaves.         (take it ivan take me)         Portugal pretty much just wants the fish.         (donne le lui s'il le veut je te le donne ivan je te me donne)         And Vinland, I remember Vinland. Norway doesn't.         (dredge it up comme sédiments au fond du lac c'est ça comme ça that's it)

Just like that, in a breath, I speed through centuries         (cloud the water)         of being around other nations;         (thick the weed)         centuries of being seen right through by them. By everyone.         (push through push through the surface sous la glace)

But that's just ... the way things are. Isn't it?

It's just the way things have always been.

(there, there)

As I release the very last of it into Russia's parted lips, returning to myself, I realise belatedly that the exhalation is tinted bright purple. That doesn't surprise me. In fact, it seems fitting, somehow, to connect us like this, in this way.

And it's a clue that I'm actually doing this right - hell, before that night in Berlin, over a year ago, I would not have believed I could turn my visibility on and off, and that still feels like fucking magic. But frankly, Russia - Ivan, if I may adopt the moniker he gives - has been a series of firsts from the beginning, so that's no surprise either.

His eyes are closed and they flutter open almost drunkenly. He swallows. The taste might be strange to him, somewhere between mid-May lakewater and sticky pine sap, memories of blackfly country, organic and sweet. "How soon does it take effect?" he croaks.

The outline of his hair against the harsh fluorescent lights already seems less clear, more fluid. "Immediately, I think."

Russia's eyes are still hazy. He should have snapped out of it by now, shouldn't he? "I have... I have never before seen you like this."

"No, I suspect you haven't." In contrast to Ivan, who's fading by the second, I am probably painfully clear, for the first time in - my entire life. Because everything about my invisibility is gone.

Russia lets go of me and the pipe, and the sudden extra weight shocks me. This thing is surprisingly heavy. As I hold it in my hands, I feel it radiating something. Power? Aggression? I'm not sure, but adrenaline is already racing through me, in preparation for a fight.

"Matvei," he says, with a distant, mystical tone of voice. I wait for him to finish.

He doesn't end his sentence with words. Instead he takes my face in his hands, cradling my cheeks more gently than I've ever felt him be, and swoops in to kiss me.

His lips on mine - I melt, and sigh against him, and wrap my arms around his shoulders to press us closer still.

I can only allow myself a few seconds to enjoy this. Not that I mind, but we're wasting time with this.

There'll be time later, won't there?

That's when I realise. The profound nature of the kiss. This is not 'I feel a deep and sincere affection for you'. This is 'what I wanted to tell you but couldn't, so here it is in case I leave forever'.

My eyes snap open and he ends it abruptly, but before I can say anything he states, very bluntly, "There is a very high chance this could fail. Terribly. I do not want that. I want you to know I am doing everything possible for success. I want you to know that despite what I may become, I - Matvei, I - no one, no one has done what you have done for me -"

It was the right thing to do. Anybody asks me for help, I give it to them. That's what I always used to do. "Thank me later," I murmur, "okay? Thank me later."

"I cannot," he growls, sounding a lot more firm than he looks, because he is half transparent, "there may not be a later for me to thank you. Later, I may not be me! This is why I must tell you now, so ... simply, let me say it!" His left eye twitches, and a shadow seems to pass over his face. But then he straightens and says, "No time, no time, there is no time for this!"

I grab him by the collar and pull him back in for a kiss. It mashes our lips together, painfully, but I don't care. I won't let him leave like this. I won't let him jinx this.

...Unless that's what he wants to do?

Is it?

Stuff it, save it, _there's no time._

I pull myself together and push him away. "Later," I whisper, agreeing with both of us. "For now, we need to move, so you do your thing, I'll do mine, and we meet up in an hour outside the fence, where you can have this back." As I tell him, he disappears from my view piece by piece.

This is so, so weird. I must have done this to others all the time before.

"Tell me, at least," he begs, "tell me that you found the clues? In the apartment?"

"Clues? I - I only found the letter."

Russia shakes his head. "That's not the right one. Another one left that for you. Then - you must know. I myself don't agree with what I'm doing. Something needs to stop me. Only one in the world who knows this is you. Maybe - only one who can stop me, is you."

I'm too shocked to speak.

He shakes his head. " _Mne nuzhna idti_. I don't know, when I'll see you next. You can't trust your boss. You can't trust me. And you are being watched at home."

He races up the stairs to the first landing, where the eyes and the faint outline of his lips remain until the end, like some kind of overgrown Cheshire cat.

But he isn't smiling, and my heart sinks.

\--

I have to return and finish what we started here, or it'll all be for nothing. Slowly my feet take me to the door where I knock.

"How much time?" I ask Estonia.

He returns to the computer and types something. It comes up. "Forty seconds. Never going to make this work in time."

I nod, though he can't see me. "What do I need to do?"

"Disconnect modems," he replies absently, typing away.

Well, I didn't get this stupid pipe for nothing. "Which ones are the modems?" I ask, looking at the baker's racks full of electronics.

Estonia mistypes and curses under his breath for a moment. "The ones with flashing lights!" he says at last.

"Estonia," I say flatly.

"What?"

"They all have flashing lights."

"Then just -" he's too busy typing. He hits the keyboard in anger and frustration. "Aagh! Just, disconnect everything. You know what, smash it. Find something, you said you would - anything, it doesn't matter, this is Kremlin, there must be some sort heavy blunt object around here or something - bookend maybe?"

"How's this?" I hold aloft the pipe.

Estonia turns around and his pale face grows that much more wan, and his eyes go wide. When he speaks, his voice is small and tinny. "H-how did - how would he - I - y-yes, you can use that, certainly, that will do."

So I take aim and bat the boxes full of blinking lights off the racks until only a few things are blinking. The sound is deafening - metal on metal screech - I hook the pipe's neck around a river of wires and tug until a black metal box the size of a laptop computer comes free and crashes to the ground from a height of four feet. It's still blinking. I smash the case until the insides are exposed and when they are, I grin as I bring the pipe down like a hammer on the green boards, and computer chips and bits of parts go flying around me in a spray. This is _fun._

"How're we doing?" I gasp.

Estonia types something. "Server number 4 still connected."

I spot a blinking thing two rows from me. "Say no more," I reply, and vault over a fallen tower to land, pipe-first, on the server, bashing it to pieces until nothing lights up anymore. This is so satisfying! Here's Colin's face, smash it to itty bits; there's that jerk at the bank who always gives me a rough time, put a pipe through her head; here's those people at the fishmonger's who look at me funny like what's this guy doing with all this salmon, I'll make them all shut up forever, punch crush smash!

It's a few strikes before I realise Estonia's even speaking to me. "What did you give him, for him to have given you that? He doesn't do anything for free."

"Shut up and keep working!" I shout.

Estonia hmphs. "I'm working perfectly fine!"

"How much time is left?"

"Five seconds -" he presses a single key with vindictive pleasure. "Virus uploaded, seeking all copies these files, eat them all - three -" I return to the computer to find the process finished. Terminal waits with a blinking cursor for new input. "Finished! Two seconds -"

Estonia types something and hits enter. "One second ..."

Terminal immediately fills with green text, scrolling down past the screen. "What's this?" I ask. "Did it work?"

"Second virus inhibits security callout to backup to cloud on servers 9 through 12. You didn't hit those. Still intact."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. All others are down, made my job easier." Estonia sits back in the chair and, with a sigh, folds his arms across his chest. "That's everything. Everything soft copy. Did not back up. No more duplicates. All that's left is in print."

"Do you think Russia was able to get those in time?"

Estonia looks grim. "I don't know."

A silence passes between us. Estonia is the first one to break it and he does so with a sigh and a shy, "Do you ... disapprove?"

Disapprove? "Of what?

"Of - of what I did," he says. "Of ... what you said I did."

I take a quick minute to think about it. Estonia stole land that wasn't his. But it may have been his originally, which Russia refused to hand back over to him. That makes a lot more sense, given the history between them.

Who is right? Who is wrong? Estonia shouldn't have stolen land, it's that simple.

But... it isn't. Is it still so simple when Estonia hasn't got all that much land to begin with, and Russia does, and Russia has more than he needs - more than perhaps is stable - and he nitpicks over these pieces just to hurt Estonia?

Russia's the one who made it personal. But Estonia's the one who made it an act of war. Especially in Europe, with its history and its penchant for haggling over every last square metre. Which is really the crux of the matter for me.

I shake my head. "It's not my place to approve or disapprove."

He doesn't speak. I don't think he's even breathing. He chances glances up at me, and looks from the pipe, to me, to his feet.

Oh my god, he thinks I'll hit him! I collapse the pipe - it's easy, I think about making it smaller, and it folds in on itself, telescopically, illogically, until it's about the size of a nut - and then put it away inside my pocket.

After this time the silence has become awkward and so I elaborate. "I wouldn't've done what you'd done, if I were in your shoes. No. But I'm not in your shoes. And I never have been. I don't have your history."

I don't know _what_ I'd do. But I wouldn't've stolen land.

He could get in serious trouble for this. Be expelled from NATO, certainly, but that's just to start. If Russia mounted an attack, would they even bother fighting him off for it? Over someone like Estonia who couldn't even keep the terms of his agreement? Or would they just bend over and let him have whatever he wanted? The land Estonia stole? _More_ of Estonia? _All_ of him?

It's a slippery slope to placating a bully, and they've - _we've_ \- done that before. I can hear them rationalising it now - _it's not like he didn't ask for it, behaving like that. Underhanded._

Estonia looks so miserable. "Don't hate me," he says. "Just because I hate him, don't hate me."

His sad puppy eyes do a good job on me. And now he _looks_ as old as his passport says he is, which is a lie, because all of us know exactly how old each other is. Damn my soft side. "Why is that so important to you?" I ask.

"When I began this, two years ago, I knew I would come out of it with Russia angry with me," he says. "But I didn't think, would jeopardise my relations with other countries. I didn't think he would reach out to anyone."

"Oh?"

"He never does," Estonia says, shaking his head. "Only when things get really bad."

"When was the last time that happened?" I'm curious. Making conversation. But if I can find out more about Russia too...

Estonia thinks. "That I can remember? 1980. Probably more recently, but I don't remember much of revolution. Lot of parties for me, in the Baltic. But that year, started good - started great - ended miserable. Poland had hand in that. Afghanistan too. By New Year's I hadn't seen him for weeks, we thought he himself had defected, if that was possible. Within one year he went from atop the world to spirits sunk below oceans. And for once I thought he would actually do something about it."

"So he reached out? To whom?"

"Well - I don't know, if he did. But he would tell us all, many times, 'I shall show them, just wait until he has too many pills, one night, then I shall take power, just one little heart attack, this time it's right, I have plan'." Estonia thinks back. "But for all his boss liked to medicate himself, he never did something stupid like that. And he survived the winter, no heart attacks. So I thought, just Russia talking again."

"Was that all?"

"And there was the birthday card, which he bought in June. All our birthdays were his birthday, in December, so I couldn't figure out -"

A birthday card. My breath stops. "Did it - did it have a little monkey on it?"

Estonia grins. "Yeah, Cheburashka. Little Soviet cartoon." He snorts a sharp laugh. "His favourite."

But before I can ask anything else, an alarm goes off, loud and shrieking. "What's that?"

"Fire alarm," says Estonia, "someone has tripped it - but there is security alarm too, I don't understand why they don't use that - anyway, no time, we should get out of here!"

"What about Russia?"

"If we don't find him, he'll have to meet us outside!"

Estonia tears off at a mad pace. I don't know how else to get out of this maze so I follow him. He leads us down the hall and up the staircase Russia went up. Up further, two flights further. He throws his weight against the door when he reaches it.

It opens, but something tells me it's only doing that because the fire alarm's on and the emergency exits have all been unlocked. We race down the hall to the window where I can see the lawn outside. We're on the ground floor.

Estonia tries the window. Nothing. "Of course none of these work," Estonia grunts, "why spend money on something like access to fresh air!"

"Can you get us another way out? Preferably a door?"

"Are you insane? Front door is heavily guarded! We exit there, they see us, and then they ask what the hell we're doing here!"

"Okay, so the back door."

"Back door is also heavily guarded! It's window or nothing at all!"

I look at the window. Well, it was a lovely window before it was smashed by a pipe, I think, as I put my hand inside my jacket pocket to retrieve the weapon.

"Ah! There you two are!"

We both look back down the hall. There's Russia, standing at the hall's end, a few paces away. He looks absurdly cheery.

I drop the pipe back into my pocket.

"You can stop your running," says Russia kindly. His eyes are sparkling but the smile doesn't exactly extend to them. He grins and it looks like he's bared his teeth.

"The fire alarm's been blaring!" explains Estonia.

"I know," Russia replies. "I set it off."

Estonia sputters, "Wh- why would you-"

"Yes. My boss' desk full of flames will tend to do that. It can't be helped! Now. Come," he commands us both, "there is a better way this way."

He leads us calmly, his hands clasped behind his back, walking with modest strides, out the nearest door. "Out through here," Russia says.

"There will be guards," Estonia whispers.

Russia shrugs, smiles, and pushes the door open.

There is a squadron of men dressed in black. Marines, or what passes for the equivalent in the Russian army. With a resounding click, all their guns leap into their hands, raised and ready to fire. " _Ni s mesta! Ruki tak chtoby ya ikh videl!_ " one says.

Russia doesn't seem at all perturbed and ambles outside cheerily. Like nothing can touch him now.

It must have worked.

But I have a sinking feeling about it.

He says a few quick words to the chief of the marines (while a bunch of people race in past us all with a fire hose) which Estonia is paying some quiet attention to.

"He's asking for his sister," Estonia whispers to me.

"He's _what _??"__

"I don't understand," continues Estonia. "Why?"

This is getting curiouser and curiouser. "Ukraine?" I ask.

Estonia nods. "It has to be, he never asks for Belarus, she just invites herself along."

Well, that's not bad. I have far, far better relations with Ukraine than Belarus. Katya will know what to do. Katya will be able to fix things.

"Ah!" says Russia at last, as a car pulls up. " _Serzhant sestrukha!_ "

Ukraine steps out - brilliantly dazzling in an army uniform consisting of a blazer decorated with epaulettes, medals, and patches, and a short skirt with black high-heeled shoes and white gloves. Her makeup is neatly applied and her hair coiffed and pinned delicately underneath a military beret. She looks good. She looks incredible, she looks dressed to kill -

She looks confident and she's not crying at all.

" _Bratik,_ " she says, and they kiss each other's cheeks in greeting. She looks at Estonia and Canada and says with a sly smile, " _Mm-hmm, ya ponimayu. Teper' ya primu rukovodstvo?_ "

" _Pozhaluista_ ," Russia replies coolly. " _Oni stoyat na moyem doroge._ "

As Ukraine advances towards us, I spot Russia over her shoulder - he salutes me with a smirk.

And then he vanishes into thin air.

Estonia sees it too, and pales. " _What_ ," he says slowly, "have you _done?_ "

"No speaking, boys!" says Ukraine. "I don't want to gag you. But I will, if I have to! Now. Get in."

Without speaking, she drives us through Moscow. I recognise nothing until we pull up to something brightly lit with planes taking off in the backyard - it can be nothing but an airport. The car stops.

Ukraine gets out first and comes around to my side, behind the driver's seat, to open my door. "Thank you," I say.

"Don't thank me, Matvei," she says icily. She hands me a briefcase and a boarding pass. "Your flight in ten minutes," she tells me. "Gate 28. Should hurry. I don't think you want to stay for fall out."

"And - Estonia?" I ask.

"Has his own flight, in two hours," she says. "We are going to have nice chat, we two." Estonia shrinks in his seat.

My flight, when I am seated on it, goes via London to Toronto to Ottawa - certainly not the most direct route - and I give serious thought to badgering them into letting me take a later flight out of Heathrow.

I could go visit England.

Something strange has happened here tonight, and I'm not sure whether it has to do with the fact that I gave him my power, or that he was successful, and that destroying a few copies of these forms has ... unleashed something. If it has, then what?

England would know.

But when I get off the plane at London, I notice that I'm still being watched and followed. Two men waiting around by my gate, another two follow me through the airport. So there's nothing to be done about it without them knowing. I intend to email England - or call him, or anything him - later.

After a transfer at Toronto, and then one at Ottawa, the spies continue to follow me throughout the whole trek. I don't know whether they follow me to my house, I don't see them but that doesn't mean they're there. It's only after that I pick up Kuma from Lisa that he beckons me down with his paw and whispers in my ear, "Who are your new friends?" that I realise they're even at my work.

I look around me, but I can see nobody out of the ordinary.

And I don't have the ability to disappear anymore. I can't even hide.

"Shouldn't've done it," says Kuma. "I'm sorry."

"Why're _you_ sorry?" I ask.

"I told you to go," he says simply, and then he spends the rest of the workday under my desk at my cubicle, warming my feet.

When later comes, we're at home, and I realise that I can't trust anything at all. Are my emails being watched, are my phone calls tapped? Estonia would know, but I can't get a message to him reliably. And something tells me Estonia's gotten fired from his monitoring position.

I'll have to go to England myself.

Or - I could go to America.

America's closer, and his spies can most certainly fight off Russia's. They'll be easily stopped at the border.

\- No, I don't feel like an 'I told you so'. Even if I deserve it. And it's not like England won't give me one of those, either, once I explain the situation.

... I'll have to explain the situation. I'll have to explain _everything_. England is a bit too smart for me to lie to.

I take a week to think about it, and finally decide to talk to England. A long and winding road around Ottawa brings me to Rideau Centre, using four cabs (it's hell on my taxi chit booklet, but Colin will deal). There, I place an international call by payphone to Italy Romano, who helps me book a ticket to London that flies out of Montreal and stops three times.

"This is really the stupidest way to get to London," says Romano over the phone. "Paris, then Rome, then Milan - _che palle!_ Sure you don't wanna just fly direct? Air France would take you straight there."

"Actually, this suits me better," I reply.

Romano is, alas, not an idiot. "You're trying to lose someone," he says. "You're being followed."

I don't bother lying anymore. My god, I'm so tired of lying. "That's why I always call you from a payphone," I sigh. "And that's why I call you, and not France, because you don't ask any questions."

He tuts. "Well, it's your time, your money," he says at last. "Good luck, Canada."

A week before my trip to England, I stop in to Lisa's desk to see if she'll take Kuma again. At least I'm giving her forward notice this time.

But Lisa doesn't show up that day. Or the next. Or the next.

I inquire with Colin, who says snottily that Lisa booked off two weeks' vacation, and that if the representative needs another assistant, he should have thought about that before joyriding off to Eastern Europe and getting himself and his boss involved in sticky diplomatic situations. (I've been CC'd on all the emails. They consist of Colin going back and forth with Petrova about my behaviour. They seem to have bonded over their mutual impatience with my antics. I can't tell if this is a good or bad sign.)

So Kuma comes with me.

I hope England has extra fish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Vot on? Vot on! Zakazy - zaderzhat'. Ey! Ty! Podozhdi!: It's him? It's him! Orders to detain. Hey! You! Wait!  
> Gde -? Kto ty?: Where -? Who are you?  
> Oy! Derzhite, vorov!: Oy! Stop, thieves!  
> Kurat küll!: Dammit!  
> Zakroy klyub, zhopoy -: Shut your beak, asshole -  
> Mne nuzhna idti: I have to go.  
> Ni s mesta! Ruki tak chtoby ya ikh videl!: Don't move! Hands where I can see them!  
> Serzhant sestrukha!: Sergeant Sister-dear!  
> Bratik. Mm-hmm, ya ponimayu. Teper' ya primu rukovodstvo?: Brother. Mm-hmm, I understand. Now I'll take over?  
> Pozhaluista. Oni stoyat na moyem doroge: Please. They're getting in my way.  
> Che palle!: What balls!


	16. Chapter 12 ½

12 ½. _(meanwhile, elsewhere in moscow)_

Russia exits the apartment itself and checks his watch. He will be late, of course, but he will be made later by the fact that that van outside his building must first be dealt with.

He looks around him. What is there to use ... ah! Filthy newspaper on the ground, one of the party goers has trampled upon it. Perfect. Russia is nothing if not resourceful. He picks this up and rolls it, then strolls down the stairs and exits the building. There he lights up a cigarette, and while he smokes it, pulls out his cellphone. He calls the police.

His number is untraceable - Petrova knows, it doesn't do to give the nation a number that can be called easily! - and he shall capitalise on this.

That is, the police cannot trace him. Petrova and Borovsky will soon realise it is him who called. But not before he has reclaimed what's his.

Voices linger in the distance. (Should you really be -?)

(Shut up, I know what I'm doing.)

(Canada is just behind you, go back to him, tell him everything)

(don't do this, it's not too late-)

The police pick up, and the others are silenced.

"Yes hello," he says, "it's not an emergency, I am simply reporting a parked car in a very clearly no-parking zone ... well, it has taken my parking spot, I have paid money for that spot ... I could have him towed, but I thought, it's probably the end of the quarter, perhaps you have someone who wants more tickets around this time, more tickets, more money, you know ... if you could dispatch a fellow to my location, I think it would help us both! ... yes, just where Fortune turns into Perestornaya, there is a set of shops, low-level buildings, three floors ... ah, then you know the area! Yes, it is right there... a white van... T028PY ... that's right, 177 ... no, please credit anonymously ... Thank you, I will! Have a lovely night. Goodbye!"

The cops come quickly. When they do, Russia makes his move, and begins walking in that direction. Away from the subway. Only a small detour. Estonia will wait. He stamps out the butt of the cigarette with his foot.

He watches as they rap on the window and the two men inside scramble to get to the front seats of the vehicle, instead of in the back monitoring the camera feeds. As they roll down the window and begin talking with the police - pleasantly, they don't want to be taken in, but insistent, because they have some jurisdisction in this area, Petrova has seen to it - Russia uses this misdirection wisely. He walks past the van near the curb, other side of where the cops speak to the van's passengers, unseen by any, and quickly crouches low to the exhaust pipe.

He stuffs the paper inside it, firmly.

"Well, if you're going to sit here all night, you can't be parked," one policeman is saying.

"Fine, fine!" and the man inside the van turns the engine on. "There, see? We are not parked, we are merely ... stopped! Will that do?"

"Can you be stopped all night long?" one policeman asks incredulously.

"Why not!" the man cries. "It is our gasoline, isn't it? Our right to use it!"

"Too hot in here anyway," his companion inside the van says, "I would prefer running the air conditioner."

The policemen must nod, because one of them says, "Have a good night," and the conversation is concluded.

Russia smiles, continues walking down the street, and only then does he double back on the next street up to Cherkizovskaya station. To Sparrow Hills he goes.

\--

When he arrives at Sparrow Hills, he finds Estonia already on a bench, waiting for him, looking nervous.

Russia strolls up behind him. In his own language - for if Estonia needs his help then they'll do things his way, of course! - he says casually, "I thought birds woke early, to catch their worms. Isn't it a little past your bedtime?"

Estonia stiffens and immediately stands to face him. Russia gives him a smile that hides a grimace. "Sit," he snaps, "for in feet, there is no truth." Estonia obeys and sits back down. Russia walks around to sit beside him. To observers, they look like two friends sitting on a park bench - perfectly innocent - although one is visibly relaxed and the other has the body language of a frightened child. "I believe," says Russia, "you had something you needed to discuss with me?"

He feels the other voices begin to crawl up his spine again. They gather momentum. Stirring... stirring... they start to whisper at him. This isn't good. The longer Estonia lingers around, the stranger his own state will become. Nations have this... _effect_ on him.

"You have to promise not to shoot me first," Estonia whispers.

"I promise no such thing. After all, what must you have done, that you make deals with the devil?"

Estonia sucks in a deep breath. "I fucked up -"

"Yes, this is obvious," Russia replies dryly, although it is very funny to him to hear Estonia admit when he's wrong, and he is grinning widely. The voices are chuckling. Russia has the giggles.

"No, really, do not mock me, this is serious. It - it happened, some time ago, I noticed that you had been less preoccupied with your borders."

He nods. "You trespassed?"

"I was on my side!" Estonia says. "I remained on my side! Only I noticed that there were fewer guards stationed. Less of your people, more that I recognised as your boss'."

That is interesting, says the whisper. "Petrova's or Borovsky's?"

"I - I couldn't tell," he replies.

Hm. A pity. "Then what did you do?"

"I thought, if not tied to you directly, you couldn't monitor them so easily. So I looked into it. Paperwork. I found that you hadn't signed anything on the borders in months. Then, you weren't able to see so clearly - so I ... so I ..."

They are swiftly approaching the crux of the matter. Russia grins so hard he feels his face may split, he is so angry. _He did it_ , chant the voices, _he did it he did it he did it make him pay._ "Yes! A magpie brought this on its tail already. So you stole land! No - don't tell me, allow me to guess! Pechory, Ivangorod."

Estonia explodes, "Petseri and Jaanilinn have been Estonian for decades, until occupation, then _you_ invade everything, and when I re-establish independence, I told you they are mine again, didn't I say? That was the document we were using, those were the borders we were using! And you're the one who fought me on it, oh, you bolstered, you badgered, your usual bag of tricks to try and subvert attention, make me look like an expert grudge holder, so that you can keep, what, a few hundred acres from me? On which Estonian families have always lived? You have more land than you need - more than is stable! And I who have so little, I must watch you haggle away for every last acre - every last of _my_ acres! I told you you'd regret it! I told you in '91!"

"Your bluster is exhausting for me to watch," Russia says, in the manner of a kindly grandfather. This makes Estonia angrier and his face takes on several new shades of red. This is of course hilarious, the voices love it, and Russia has to fight off laughing. "I am not afraid of the dog who barks, I am afraid of the one who is silent, and wags his tail. Now, tell me, puppy. What else did you take? Did you go after Karelia? Thought you'd make a gift out of it for your darling friend Finland? Carve me up for sweet little Latvia? Think you could get away with it?"

"I _did_ get away with it, that's the thing," Estonia says. "Until Petrova's people found out what I'd done."

Petrova, not Borovsky, the he-within-him notes. "When was this?"

"I did it in October. Not last one, two years ago. All three of you were away at the time - in North America, visiting. I didn't know why she cared, land means nothing to humans, it meant nothing to her - born in Leningrad, and she'd never been to this 'Ivangorod,' this 'Pechory'. Why would she care? She wasn't doing it because you'd noticed. So why should anybody bother? As far as she knew it was settled between people like us. All land disputes are settled between people like us! It was easy, doctoring maps, filing them in right places. Before too long you yourself were convinced, you didn't even know it. I walked around the streets of Petseri for a full month and you felt nothing! No, there was no such thing as Pechory, no Ivangorod. Just my cities. As it should be!"

Estonia looks a little too happy. "Watch your tongue," Russia taunts, with a smirk, "don't forget that I could consider this an act of war."

At this, Estonia pales. "Th-then you're prepared to."

"Hm?"

"You can say - _it_. The word. You must have a machine ready. Ideas. Plans."

"I have no such things," Russia lies.

I do, says Ivan.                                                                                                                                  
And me.                                                                                  
And me.                                             
And me.  
                                                         _And us._

"And if I did, I wouldn't tell you, anyway."

"Y-your fight isn't with me, it's with people like Petrova and Borovsky!" Estonia sputters. "They couldn't have found out unless someone in the administration had cross-referenced it. But they didn't bring it to your attention, did they? Because otherwise, you would have told me! You would have brought it up. No, you must have had no idea. Someone in the administration reports to either Petrova or Borovsky, bypassing you entirely, about a matter that is mandated in the terms of our cooperation with the government. Russia, folks like you and I, we are to be consulted about these matters. They are matters that concern _us_. They didn't consult you. About your own land!"

This is true, and it hasn't escaped Russia's note.

(Ah, but it's all part of the plan!)

(What plan? No, this is bad, this is very bad - where is Canada?)

(Canada, pah! You don't need him. He's only useful for -)

"Russia? _Venemaa?_ Say something, at least! They could have cut off your own finger!"

(- but he _has_ been useful... you could reward him...)

Russia clears his mind, remembers what was last said, and pouts. "You're being awfully mean. If you're trying to get me not to fight you, this isn't the way to do it. So! You found a security leak - well, good for you! - and decided you'd patch it yourself. It doesn't explain why you are working with either of my bosses."

Estonia pales. "That's... that's where I fucked up."

(Oh, _that's_ where you fucked up! No, you steal my land and violate my borders, but you fucked up when you started working with my bosses! You have very curious priorities, my little sparrow!)

(He didn't mean to, surely, he is interpreting this as worry over what bosses may do to us, he doesn't realise what you're doing.)

(Yes, should you really be doing this, Rossiya? Think, is it really the best idea? Is there nothing else?)

(Fool! Of course, it is the _only_ idea, it's the best way! How else can we give people what they want, in a reasonable time? If only I had more control!         more                 control                 -- )

"They said I could have it," Estonia continues, "that they'd ignore everything, they'd keep it all covered up - as long as I helped them with a little codebreaking. It was nothing! but it didn't stay nothing - they kept asking me _this_ , asking me _that_ , it wasn't long before I figured out what they wanted me to do, they wanted me to spy on you a-and - on you and - uh -"

"On me and Canada, you mean," Russia completes his sentence. (Yes, on you and Canada, your little helper. Matvei, who delivers the message from the son to the devil. How useful!)

"It's private, I know," he replies while blushing. "I didn't like what I did. Whatever I feel for you set aside, I felt very guilty, because Canada didn't deserve that."

(Yes, yes, Canada doesn't deserve. Whatever. Canada shouldn't have gotten involved.)

(he got involved only because _you_ asked him)

(No, you're the one who asked him! I didn't need his help)

(but you did, you wanted his help to jumpstart your own plans)

(yes, about that! I could use Estonia wisely, get back at Petrova and Borovsky, put them in their places... Yes... yes... it's all coming together...)

(They only wanted what was best, they didn't realise -)

(One of them did, he knows what he's done.)

(he did exactly as you wanted him to, none of this is his own invention, it's all -

( _MY OWN!!_ )

(give me my fingers back)

"I'll give you the lands on one condition," Russia interrupts. "I need a favour."

Estonia pulls a face. "That's what your bosses said, but blackmailers are never content with a favour exchanged! No, if they know they've got you, they want you as long as they can have you! I won't be a pawn under your influence. Not anymore."

"It'll be the one time. You do as I tell you, then I give you the lands. I can't do it without my power restored. You've seen it first hand - Borovsky and Petrova have made it so that I don't know who's doing what. I need that control back, and I need it to grant land exchange anyway, so you'll have to help me with that."

"That's it? So easily, you give up those territories?" Estonia clearly doesn't believe it. "You must have something planned - you never exchange something unless you get more than you give. What are you getting?"

Russia smiles sweetly. "That's between me and my bosses. If I can take out another nation's interference then so much the better for me! Besides. That land will be mine in the end! All will be one with me eventually.

"Keep dreaming," Estonia says sourly.

(Oh, I have such dreams! Soon you will realise.)

( _Soon they will all realise._ )

"Then we are settled? You help me regain this power, I'll call off your debt."

"It can't be that simple." Estonia folds his arms over his chest.

Russia knows this stubborn look, he has seen his little sparrow friend wear it many times before. He will have to be more... _convincing._

"But I have no further need of business with you. The sooner you get your nose out of things, the better for me. What more do you want? I could get you in serious trouble for it, if you liked. I'd launch my attack." Estonia pales. Ah, Russia likes this look on him. Terrified, pinned, helpless. Russia beams and draws himself up taller. This, he relishes. "Would NATO even bother fighting me? Because you couldn't keep the terms of your own agreement! It's your fault! Maybe, they'll let me take what I like? I can take those two cities back. I can take _more_ of you. Why, I can have all of you! Can't you imagine it, Estonia? I can!"

Estonia looks terrified.

"Do you really want that?" Russia continues. "Or wouldn't you rather help me with my problems, just this once, and then we call it even?"

"Do I have your word on that?" asks Estonia. "That it'll be just one favour, then we go our separate ways? Y-you've got to understand, Petrova promised me the same. But it never ends and before I know it I'm practically on her payroll. What can this one favour possibly be?"

(You should keep him around for longer, he could be useful. Like Canada...)

(We'll have him eventually - he'll be the first to fall in the end. The Baltics always are!)

(a raven pecks not the eyes of another raven!)

(If you didn't know better, if you were deluded, you might think it is because they are always, secretly, longing very much to be your friends. Yes, Rus', everybody is your friend!)

(Sometimes, you are deluded.)

(b-but right now, you are clear as a bell.  
                                yes  
                                                clear!                         do you hear it?

No, it's no accident they dislike you. A goose is not a pig's friend. But ah, what a shame for the Baltics that they had to be geographically next to you! Can anyone truly resist such a pretty buffer zone? Can you really be blamed?)

"Perhaps ... not just the one favour." Estonia looks instantly cross, and Russia clarifies. "I'll need your general services until sun up. How's that?"

Estonia reflects. It's a bet. Will he take it? "I suppose... I'll accept that much. Alright. Until sun up."

He extends his hand, and Russia takes it in his, only gripping it for now. " _Anything_ I need," Russia says.

For a moment Estonia is silent, but then he shakes the hand in his own. "Anything you need," he agrees.

(you can see it plainly in Estonia's face! Estonia has bet that you can't possibly break the world in the time remaining until sunrise)

(ah, _Estoniya moya_ , fools truly are not sown or reaped, no. They appear all by themselves.)

"Here's what will happen," says Russia, and he outlines his plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some history in here, to do with real-life Estonian-Russian border treaties. When the Union fell and independence was re-established, Estonia intended to reclaim its borders as per the treaty signed with the Union in the early 20's which included Petseri and Jaanilinn in its borders. The Russian Federation - successor state to the Soviet Union - has suggested instead Estonian borders as per the treaties drawn up in the 1940's, which do not include Petseri and Jaanilinn. The two countries have basically been going back and forth on this topic.


End file.
